


The Lonely Prince and Company

by Lillianpost



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort/Angst, Friendship/Love, Gen, Platonic Romance, Young Thorin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-10
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-24 06:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1594271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lillianpost/pseuds/Lillianpost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin struggles to lead the dwarves through danger and despair after the fall of Erebor and meets his future company one by one. Adventure and perhaps a little romance</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Memories and Madness

 

"Where is grandfather?" Thorin asked in a low voice.

He looked down at his cold and untouched food served on a solid-gold plate. Thror had insisted that food tasted better on gold, and no one dared say different. The prince scowled and looked around resentfully at the sumptuous feasting hall with its gold-plated columns and elaborately bejeweled dining table. Bits of pork wedged between the diamond and ruby inlay, and dried pieces of old potato encrusted the amethysts and emeralds that winked at him in the torchlight. The torches, themselves, were made of solid gold and set in golden wall sconces. His eyes wandered around the room, and he felt a chill as he gazed unhappily at the king's many and oblivious counselors.

"Father, where is he?" He tried to keep any hint of accusation out of his tone, but the sudden clench of his father's grip on his tankard told him that he failed. They all knew where he was.

"The king needs a diversion," Thrain growled, clearly in no mood for another tense dinner. "You don't understand, son. He's more himself now since mother died, and we should be grateful."

Then he shook his head to dismiss any concern and smiled widely.

"Did you see him today?" he asked proudly without waiting for an answer. "Had the energy of 10 dwarves as he reorganized the treasury. Needed to be done for ages anyway. By Durin, he had the old snap back in his eyes!"

Thorin shot a glance to his mother, but she shook her head warningly at him. Thrain closed the subject on how much time the king spent in the treasure rooms. Thror was simply being a responsible king to keep an eye on the financial health of the kingdom, his father said, but Thorin saw something deeper and darker in his grandfather's eyes, and his mother agreed.

"What do we do?" he asked her quietly after Thrain turned aside to joke with one of his advisors, none of whom expressed any concern about the king. Why should they? Thror mourned long and miserably for his beloved wife, and the dwarves all walked softly around him—that is, until he deigned to leave his chambers after his crafters presented him with a new pendant with his wife's portrait. He stared at it for hours and watched the inlaid gemstones wink in the light before he left his chambers and strode to the treasury to see other works of golden art.

From there, the king commissioned a frenzy of refurbishment. Foremen urged the miners to work harder and delve deeper, for the king had a grand vision that would not be denied. Erebor was not merely the greatest fortress ever, but it would be the greatest kingdom ever and draped and shaped with such riches that the eye could scarcely behold.

Thorin had watched tired miners, too weary for their usual banter, trudge back to their quarters with a heaviness to their steps. When he went to oversee the jewelry makers, he saw with mounting alarm their frantic arguments and panic over the king's latest changes to already set designs. Stopping by the schoolrooms, he listened in as dwarflings learned the melting points of the various precious metals and what objects might be crafted from them. All of Erebor was turning, by the king's order, into one great treasure-house and all its people into greedy hoarders.

"What now, mother?" he repeated, thinking that she did not hear him. Slowly, she held up her hand as her brow furrowed.

"I heard you, my son," she said softly, "but I was thinking about what would get through to him. Perhaps asking him about your grandmother might loosen his obsession's hold."

Thorin frowned.

"Surely not," he said with a slow shake of his head. "His grief is what caused all this."

The crown princess gently put her hand on her son's arm and smiled sadly.

"I know, my dear," she said, "but your grandmother loved the fresh air and slopes of the mountain just as much as the inner halls. Taking your grandfather to the rock garden on the lower slope might remind him of happier days and how she spurned all his attempts to woo her with riches. Perhaps it would remind him of how little she cared of things and how much she cared for our people. Perhaps that reminder might lessen the grip of his"—and she lowered her voice—"gold sickness."

Thorin looked around quickly to make sure that no one else had heard. No one was allowed to say those words, by royal order, and Thorin felt for a second that he and his mother had just plotted treason. The air was thick with unspoken words, and it made him sick.

Has it come to this? he asked himself as he nodded to his mother and excused himself. Secrecy and subterfuge? Thrain was deep in his cups, guzzling another goblet of mead, and did not remark his son's absence.

"More mead!" he shouted as he threw his empty cup on the floor.

Thorin's steps faltered as he approached his puttering grandfather in the main treasure vaults.

"Beautiful, beautiful," he heard the king mutter as he eyed a tall and elegant, golden vase with feverish eyes. Then he frowned at a spot of open space on the floor. "What's this?" he asked through his teeth. "I ordered the larger diamonds here."

The sparkle of the gold dimmed as Thorin's shadow fell across it, and Thror's eyes opened wide. He wheeled around, only to step back and exhale in relief as his grandson carefully approached.

"Thorin, my lad!" Thror boomed with frantic cheer. "You've come to help me order my newest acquisitions, I see! Good! Good!"

Thorin sighed internally and braced himself. He bowed and slowly put his hands behind his back as he stepped forward, a wary smile on his face.

"Actually, my lord," he said, "I wish to ask you something."

Thror's face fell, and the corner of his mouth turned down.

"No time, no time for questions," he said as his eyes pulled the rest of him back toward the treasure, "unless it's about the yield estimates of that new seam of gold." He glanced back at Thorin with his eyebrows raised but then waved his hand dismissively when the prince did not answer.

"Later, lad," he mumbled, "I'm busy."

Thorin pressed his lips together and then strode toward his grandfather and again blocked his light.

"I wish to ask you about grandmother," he said seriously. His back stiffened, waiting for a royal rebuke, but Thror stilled and turned slowly toward him.

"You, you wish to hear about … her?" he asked hoarsely. Breath rattled in his chest while he considered the request. Silence filled the space between them. "Why?" he whispered brokenly.

Thorin hesitated and then bent over and gazed solemnly into his grandfather's face.

"Because I love her, and I want to keep her memory alive," he said simply.

Thror gazed at him as if trying to remember a face long past.

"Thorin?" he asked finally with clearer eyes.

"Aye, my lord," he replied eagerly. "We can go to her rock garden to talk." The young prince stood rigidly, afraid that his excitement might somehow disqualify his request.

Thror's arm reached out toward the treasure, almost of its own volition, as though his body was not under his control.

"Please," he begged. Thror grunted in pain as his gaze swung between the gold and his grandson who held his breath.

Finally, through a clenched jaw, Thror threw the words out. "Very well."

Thorin led him through the Great Hall, and the dwarves stopped and stared at their king. They had not seen him in some time, and the hopeful looks on some of their faces made Thorin's heart tighten in despair.

They don't deserve this, he thought morosely, they don't deserve to serve this madness.

Thror drew a cleansing breath as he stepped through the door to his once-beloved rock garden. Benches made of white marble rested among malachite topiaries and crystal figurines. The sun hung midway in the sky and threw beams of light on the highly polished carvings. The air was unseasonably hot, and Thorin felt its dryness. Thror sat down hard on a bench, and Thorin sat carefully beside him.

"She loved this garden," the king began, and he looked at the figurines like old friends. "She loved being out here and looking down to the valley."

Thorin cleared his throat.

"Why did you choose her, grandfather?" he asked as he cast about for something to say.

Thror shot him a shrewd look. "Thinking of joining with someone, my lad?" he asked amused. "Someone caught your fancy? I had heard that plenty of our own hope your eyes will turn their way."

Shaking his head, Thorin looked down. "There's no one, my king," he said. "There was a time when I had considered a wife, but now ..." He sighed.

"But now what?" Thror asked. "You're a handsome dwarrow, and there's no more skilled warrior. As prince, you can have anyone, my lad, anyone."

Clearly, Thror did not see how his illness affected his family or even that he was ill.

"Ah," he said with his finger by his nose, "you're more like me than Thrain, is that it? Mined from the same rock we are."

Thorin looked up startled. "What do you mean, my lord?"

Thror looked in the distance. "When I met your grandmother, it didn't take but a moment before I fell captive," he said wistfully. Then he chuckled. "She was carrying a stack of books to the archive when she tripped on the hem of her gown. I caught her arm just before she fell, and felt this, this tingle run through me."

Thorin looked at him perplexed, and Thror laughed. "If it hits, grandson, you'll know soon enough!"

He rubbed his large nose and continued. "She looked up at me with a smile of thanks and a sparkle in her green eyes, and I knew, I knew then that the passion had struck me."

Scoffing aloud, Thorin made a face of distaste.

"No, no, it's true," Thror said, warming to the memory. "I knew then that I felt the grand passion of the dwarves, and how glad I was of it!" He rubbed his hands together and chuckled.

"There never was a more cheerful captive!"

Thorin raked one hand through his hair.

"How can that be, grandfather?" he asked skeptically. "I've heard tales of this, this grand passion as well, but I always thought it a story. Certainly, not all dwarrow feel this for their partners in life."

"True enough," Thror said, and he leaned closer, "but for us lucky few who find it, it's the greatest joy in Middle-earth. You father loves your mother well enough and with all that he has to give, but he, bless him, just isn't as deep as you or me, nor does he have as much heart. It takes a big heart to hold such passion, although it never can be contained."

Thorin was not sure he wanted to hear such things about his father, but they were said nonetheless. Thror grinned at his discomfort.

"Aye," he said nodding sagely, "when you fall, you'll fall hard, my lad, and Mahal help you then! I only hope she doesn't make things too difficult for you."

Fidgeting on the bench, Thorin cursed his choice of subjects, but the king only laughed.

"Too proud are you then?" he asked. "Too concerned with your own dignity?"

His grandfather and king leaned closer and put his arm around his shoulders.

"When you find her or she finds you, Thorin," he said sagely, "just give in, laddie, because you won't be able to stop it."

He gave another shrug of amusement and then looked down at the pendant he always wore.

"So lovely," he murmured as he ran his thick fingers over her jeweled face. "Eyes so green, as green as grass in the spring, as green as the emeralds from the old south mine."

Thorin watched him stroke the pendant and listened to him croon over his grandmother's likeness.

"My only love," Thror whispered, "my beloved." His eyes glazed over, and he held up the pendant and watched the sun catch the gems.

"How beautiful," he whispered, "and you'll never leave me."

Shifting uncomfortably, Thorin felt a hot wind begin to blow.

"Grandfather?"

"Hmmm?"

"Perhaps we'd better go in now," Thorin said cautiously. "Mother and father would like to see you now in any case. They miss you."

Thror reared up.

"Miss me?" he asked with chagrin. "Well, then why aren't they spending more time in the treasury, building the wealth of our people?"

Thorin winced as he saw the change in Thror's eyes.

"I must get back!" Thror said fiercely. "Why did we come out here? What did you want to talk to me about? Well, it can wait!"

The old dwarf pushed off the bench and hurried through the door, but Thorin turned his face back to the hot wind. Something was very wrong.

"Come! Come, grandson," Thror said from inside the hall. "I want you to get the latest production figures from Balin." The he hurried away to the sorting rooms.

"Aye, my king," Thorin said as he hastened to find Balin. He reached the battlements as searing heat hit his face. He turned and yelled down to all below.

" _Dragon!_ "


	2. Wandering Aimlessly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two months after the fall of Erebor, the dwarves had wandered through the land, passing through various towns and facing the hardships of losing more of their people to after-effects of Smaug.

The gleaming blade sliced their heads off cleanly and without a sound. The warrior then turned his attention to his silent opponent standing tall in the center of the clearing. He approached slowly with measured, sure steps as his adversary held out heavily armored limbs, seemingly daring him to come closer. With a loud war cry, the warrior weaved a deadly dance before lopping off the enemy's limbs, finally sending the defeated figure crashing to the ground. Then he heard a snort and turned around.

"Feeling better now, laddie?" Balin asked as he looked at the heads of various flowers strewn on the ground and an old tree trunk chopped to pieces.

Thorin wiped the back of his fist across his mouth and shook his head.

"No," he said as he lowered his sword and surveyed the devastation he wrought in his battle against nature. He toed one of the hacked branches on the ground, making Balin think of their habit of checking for signs of life among their fallen enemies. "I don't think I'll ever feel better. Not after these past few days."

Balin clucked in sympathy and shook his head. He walked over to Thorin and touched his arm, but the young prince wrenched it away and walked over to a large rock. Leaning against it, he took his sword and punched the tip into the soft dirt over and over while his royal advisor and friend watched with furrowed brow. After the coming of Smaug, the surviving dwarves of Erebor meandered for weeks in the countryside with help from precious few. They had run for their lives that infamous day, and not many were able to take anything of value. Fortunately though, enough grabbed their purses of gold and precious gems, and with those the dwarves were at least able to buy food and supplies to camp outside the various towns they encountered. Members of the royal family and other nobles also bartered and sold the jewels they wore to buy weapons and tools. Too soon though, those exposed to Smaug's fiery breath found themselves coughing up blood and increasingly unable to keep up with the rest. Thorin insisted on being present for every burial.

"My prince …" Balin began with hesitation, "you know that deaths are inevitable. Many whose lungs were scorched with dragon fire can't be expected to survive …." He stopped as Thorin held up his palm.

"Nothing you can say," he said softly in a rich baritone, "will make any difference, Balin. The cruel fact is my people are dying before my eyes, and I can't do anything about it."

Then he looked up at the sky and shook his fists, crying out in Khuzdul. His deep voice raged until he dropped his head and rubbed his thumb and forefinger against his eyes, willing them not to tear. Balin heard the anguish in his voice and sighed. Thorin had expected to rule after his grandfather and father—not instead of them—but Thror kept to his tent staring at a pendant of his late wife, which he refused to part with even though it would provide food for his people for a month, and Thrain …. Balin's lips pressed together. Thrain held court in the largest tent and concerned himself with minutiae, busying himself with obscure, royal protocols while refusing to face the difficult decisions that needed to be made daily. Thorin made his excuses at each burial, saying that his father was busy attending to other matters, but he fooled no one.

Balin looked up under his increasingly bushy eyebrows at the solemn prince who leaned against the rock with his eyes closed, and he mourned the heavy burden that fell too soon on his broad shoulders.

 _Even so,_ Balin thought,  _they already look to him to lead them, and he loves them too well to fail them. He will die for them if need be. That has to be worth something._

The doughty dwarf scowled as he looked over at the royal encampment in the distance and saw Thrain surrounded by witless, minor nobles who flattered and fawned but did nothing to ease their people's sufferings. Forever in meetings with various counselors, Thrain made endless plans to return to Erebor without ever considering how to contend with the resident dragon.

Then a guard ran over and bowed. Thorin straightened immediately and assumed a princely posture. Gone was the despairing dwarf of a moment ago. Instead stood the calm and commanding Prince of Erebor.

"My lord," he puffed, "we have visitors who require an audience with you."

Thorin stiffened, and his eyebrows lowered. The dwarves had received little help in their tragedy, and he had become suspicious of all visitors after some snuck in after dark intending to rob them of what little they had left. After several night raids, Thorin posted guards in rotating shifts.

"How many?" he asked. Balin stroked his beard in worry.

"Eight, my lord," the guard replied, "and two are women."

At that, their eyebrows rose, and they walked quickly toward the large tent that served as a throne room. Balin quickly brushed flower petals and pieces of grass off Thorin before the frustrated prince slapped his hands away, but then he straightened his sweaty tunic and tried to look as regal as possible before turning to Balin for his opinion. The old dwarf pulled a few more bits of leaf out of Thorin's hair before he nodded and shrugged. Entering the tent, they saw before them four soldiers and four richly dressed nobles. Their obvious finery marked them as of the neighboring city, and Thorin stifled a groan, expecting them to be a delegation demanding that they move on.

"I am Thorin, Prince of Durin," he said smoothly and gestured for sentries to bring chairs for his guests.  _No longer of Erebor_ , he thought. Surreptitiously, he wiped the dirty toes of his boots on the grass while trying not to fidget since he knew that his soiled attire was not appropriate for meeting guests of any kind, much less nobility, but one of the nobles caught him, and his lip curled in contempt.

"I am Eldor," he said proudly, "prince of the six cities of this land—and of the surrounding countryside in which your people  _temporarily_  reside. With me are my mother, Queen Miraine; my sister, Princess Tayla; and our steward, Lord Henrin."

Balin scrunched his mouth and waited for the unpleasantness to begin. He glanced at Thorin and saw his jaw working back and forth as he battled with his pride. Knowing that he was in no position to demand or even ask anything, Thorin ground his teeth at not being able to meet this man as an equal. Indeed, his status as a prince of Erebor would have had this man kneeling before him not so long ago, but that time was gone and would never return and, judging by the gleam in the young man's eye, he knew it too.

"At your service," Thorin said between his teeth, and he gave a short bow to each and waited silently. The prince tilted his head and took his measure. He was of average height and rather unattractive with a hook nose and thin face, but standing with his legs apart and his hand on his hip, he acted like he ruled the dwarves as well as men.

"Where is King Thror?" he inquired pleasantly, but both dwarves heard the underlying malice.

"The king was injured and is presently recovering," Balin said diplomatically. The prince turned and scrutinized Balin's official robes and insignia.

"Ah, indeed," he replied, "and your father, Prince Thrain? Is he  _indisposed_  as well?"

Thorin squared his shoulders and was about to bite the man's head off when, surprisingly, the queen silenced her son with a look and stepped forward. She was slighter than the prince, but her eyes were bright and penetrating, and he scowled but stepped back.

"Prince Thorin," she said firmly, "your people are many, and the land cannot support them all for long without a serious strain on our resources, but we come in peace and with something that may help your people who suffer from the effects of dragon breath."

At that, both Balin and Thorin started in surprise and stepped closer. The queen looked at the dwarf prince, who stood a head below her, and recognized his honest fear and concern for his people. She smiled and nodded, knowing then that she had done the right thing despite her son's loud objections.

"In ancient times, when dragons plagued this land, our people developed an ointment," and she motioned for the soldiers to step forward, "to ease the effects of dragon breath."

The men bowed and placed large pots of pungent salve on the table next to Thorin.

"The salve must be smeared on a cloth and held to the nose near steam, so the vapors can be inhaled for at least an hour," the queen continued. "If done daily, within a moon cycle, the lungs will be able to heal themselves. These pots will treat 500 of your people, and we have more should you have need of it."

Then the prince, who had paced behind her while biting his thumbnail, marched forward.

"How can you do this, mother?" he cried. "After all that they did to us!"

Thorin and Balin turned to him in surprise.

"Don't look so innocent!" he said angrily. "Your greed killed my brother, the crown prince!"

The queen's face crumpled, and she bowed her head, while the princess stepped closer to her mother and clutched her arm.

"Lord Henrin," the queen said in a shaky voice, "please escort the prince outside to wait by the horses."

The older man turned and faced down the young prince whose chin was lifted. The two glared at each other until the prince dropped his eyes and stepped outside the lifted flap. When his angry mutterings could no longer be heard, the queen turned back to Thorin.

"I apologize for that display," she said. "It has been a difficult time for us as well."

Balin stroked his beard and then gestured at the tent flap.

"What did he mean, my queen?" he asked.

She did not answer but put her hand to her mouth and shook her head instead as tears gathered.

"My brother, the crown prince, was friends with King Girion's son," Princess Tayla said softly. "He was visiting Dale the day the dragon came. When my father, the king, heard the news, he suffered a stroke and now is on his death-bed."

Burning shame coursed through Thorin's veins, and his shoulders dropped. While, he, of course, knew of Dale and thought sadly of the fate of his neighbors, he did not realize until now how far the tragedy had spread, and all because of his grandfather's greed.

"My queen, I," he stuttered, but she lifted her hand.

"It's not your fault," she said evenly. "It's not even Thror's fault. The dragon did not need to attack Dale to reach Erebor. It killed because it's wicked, and one day vengeance will come, but in the meantime, we who suffer must either forgive or turn as bitter and as evil as that monster." In a whisper, she added, "I fear that for my son."

Thorin's mouth fell open at her unexpected generosity of spirit, and he fell to his knees before her, but she bade him rise and put her hands on his shoulders.

"You are a prince of Erebor," she said, "and your people need you. No doubt your elders are suffering the same despair as my husband, which leaves you and me to meet the needs of our people. I had heard as much in court, and that is why I came."

She smiled through her tears, and Thorin's throat choked. He was not sure he would be as generous and welcoming if the reverse were true, and then came the thought of payment.

"My lady," he began hoarsely, "we have nothing to offer in payment of this most welcome aid …," and he shook his head helplessly.

Princess Tayla glanced at her mother and then spoke.

"We ask for nothing in return, Prince Thorin," she said calmly. Then she smiled. "Except, perhaps, that you do the same, if in time you find someone who needs  _your_  help."

Then she rubbed her hands together and clasped them in front of her.

"My father is expected to live no longer than two full moons," she said. "Our custom is to mourn for one full moon, and then my brother will ascend the throne."

Queen Miraine nodded and looked gravely at both Thorin and Balin.

"You and your people must be past our borders before then," she said, "or Eldor will attack without mercy. Many in the council also want revenge for my son's death, but I am regent for now, and I can give you two months of peace. The land beyond ours to the west is ruled well in matters of state, and the king there will not allow Eldor to cross his borders in hostility. However, I warn you now to hide your women from him, and if he compels an inspection, hide them among the men. He is ruthless in his appetites, and many a maid has borne his bastards."

Balin winced, but Thorin's eyes opened wide at the threats surrounding his people. Queen Miraine saw the burden in his eyes and shook her head sadly.

"Such is the world we live in, Prince Thorin," she said, "and you will need to gather those you can count on to help share the load." Then she smiled as she glanced at Balin, who had puffed his chest out and taken a defensive stand next to his prince. "I see you have already begun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show the emotional toll on Thorin who is left to shoulder the burdens while his father and grandfather try to recapture the glory days. Feel free to leave comments and suggestions!


	3. The Smell of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frerin and Dis show signs of dragon sickness, and Thorin struggles with guilt and self-recriminations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a reflective chapter about Thorin and his family.

Thorin strode quickly toward the make-shift infirmary with dwarves carrying the precious pots of salve behind him. Balin bustled to keep up with his long strides. For the first time since the loss of Erebor, Thorin felt some of his burden lift, and he rolled his shoulders as he walked, trying to ease the strain. Finally, he could do something to help his people, help his ….

 _I will not think about this now,_  he thought as he chewed the side of his mouth.  _They can't be sick. They are NOT sick!_

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Pain lanced his temple as his mind drifted back to the crashing of the dragon's heavy body against the main gate. Screaming, boots pounding against the gleaming floor, and frantic calls of husbands for their wives and parents for their children assaulted his ears. The dragon's searing breath streamed through the cracks in the gate and burned his cheeks. Ignoring the sweat soaking his back, he took his stand and held his sword aloft. Erebor would not fall, not his home, not to a dragon. Looking around at the grim faces of his guard, he braced himself and hoped against hope that his mother and sister were safe. He cast a glance behind him and saw his young brother, Frerin, running up to join him with his sword and a wide smile. So young, so eager and naïve to think it just another adventure.

"You and me will take it together," he said taking his place next to Thorin, "just like our like hunts in the forest." He looked up at the older brother he so idolized, and Thorin realized with despair that Frerin expected him to triumph with ease as he had before.

Thorin grabbed his shoulder and shoved him back, ignoring the hurt look on his face.

"Get mother and Dis out of here!" he cried. He clenched his jaw as Frerin stood in shock with his mouth open and his sword tip dropping to clang on the floor.

"But, but," he stuttered, "we, we, it won't take Erebor, you won't let it …."

Thorin closed his eyes in pain and took a steadying breath against the roar of the dragon.

"Get them out!" he said with a final shove and then turned resolutely to face the gate. He tried so hard to hold the line, only to be tossed aside with the rest when Smaug smashed through solid stone. Friends of his and comrades had their brains and innards strewn across the Great Hall when crushed by Smaug's massive feet, and many more burned to ash where they stood.

"Run for your lives!" he hollered as he scanned the crowd desperately for his family. He held his breath when he saw Frerin running for an opening in the gate and pulling Dis along behind him. Then he turned to see his mother limping toward him with an unknown dwarfling in her arms. Her rich gown was torn and bloody.

"Mother!" he cried and pushed to get to her, and then he saw it. A cracked pillar was giving way. She looked up, and then their eyes locked. She smiled sadly and mouthed, "My son," before she and the babe disappeared under the rubble.

"No!" he screamed. "No!"

Thorin shuddered and forced himself back to the present. To dwell on the past was to court madness, and he had seen plenty of  _that_  lately. Empty glances and frantic mumblings of dwarves who had lost their minds in the unbelievable events of almost a month ago kept the camp on edge, and the occasional shrieks of nightmares piercing the warm, night air sent him into a cold, shivering sweat.

Balin noticed the clench of his jaw and looked askance at his determined profile.

 _Aye,_  he thought,  _he'll make a fine king if these events don't break him first._

"My prince," a courtier cried as he ran up and bowed quickly, "your brother and sister!"

Thorin paled and stopped short, motioning with a jerk of his head for the dwarf to finish.

"They're bleeding, my lord, from the nose and mouth! It began an hour ago."

Thorin broke into a run while those around him bowed quickly and stepped back. Charging through the opening, he saw Dis laying limply on a cot and Frerin flailing against the arms that held him down. Blood seeped out of Dis' nose, but Frerin sprayed droplets of blood as he thrashed and shouted at the healers. Dark rivulets stained the young dwarf's wispy, dark beard.

"Let me go!" he rasped. "I'm a prince! Let me go!"

Thorin grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him down on the cot.

"Lay still, brother," he said. "Your lungs are burned by dragon breath…." Frerin's eyes widened, and he shook his head from side to side in panic. "But we have medicine now to heal you."

Frerin craned his neck to see Dis in the cot opposite. Healers surrounded her, but he could hear her whimpering, and he cried out for her only to have Thorin grab his face and tell him to hush lest he upset her further. Thorin ordered the healers to boil cauldrons of water to fill the tent with steam, and he grabbed soft, cotton wadding and smeared it with the salve.

"I don't care what he's doing, Balin," he said over his shoulder as he tended to his brother, "you get my father in here now, and bring those worthless leeches with him."

* * *

Thrain snorted angrily at Balin's intrusion into his important discussion on reclaiming Erebor, and he looked up from his parchments with a scowl.

"What  _is_  it, Balin?"

A dwarf lord in his own right, Balin pursed his lips and put his hands on his hips. After watching Thorin suffer and Frerin and Dis struggling, he was in no mood to spare the prince.

"Your son and daughter are in the infirmary with internal bleeding from dragon breath," he said. "Do you want to see after their welfare, or is the color of uniforms we can't afford more important at the moment?"

Thrain's eyes opened wide at his impertinence and, for a moment, he stood with his jaw moving but no sound coming out. Then the meaning of his words seeped in, and he turned white.

"My, my children?" he quavered.

"Aye," Balin said sternly, "you seem to have forgotten you had any."

Then his fierce gaze fell on the well-dressed dwarves surrounding the prince. "And you lot are to come and serve the sick, by order of Prince Thorin."

One minor noble scoffed until he felt the point of Balin's dagger under his chin.

"You really don't want to press me," he said glaring, "unless you'd rather latrine duty."

The noble gulped and nodded. Thrain threw aside the plans and hastened out of the tent.

"Where is he?" he asked with Balin at his side.

"He's with them, my lord," he said. Then he looked up at the prince. "He's been with them through it all."

Thrain looked down and shook his head uncomprehendingly. Balin huffed in anger and stewed for a moment over whether he should let Thrain feel the full weight of his incompetence.

"He's been with the sick and their families until the end and at every burial, my lord," Balin said, and Thrain felt his unspoken scorn. "He's led our people honorably these past few weeks."

At that, Thrain stopped short.

"He's led? Where's the king?"

Balin ground his teeth and turned to face the dwarf he once respected.

"The king," he said impatiently, "as you well know, is consumed by gold sickness and is content to spend every day gazing at his pendant heedless of the welfare of his people."

Thrain opened his mouth, but Balin waved him off.

"Oh, he issues orders from time to time," Balin said bitterly, "and the ones we can follow we do, but Thorin's been leading us alone since Erebor. Who else would it be? You left him to handle everything after you decided to do nothing but fuss over useless plans and pore over meaningless protocols."

Thrain's face hardened, and he looked behind him at his retinue. Then he looked around at the despairing faces of his people and closed his eyes in humiliation.

"I have failed us," he said in a low voice. "I don't deserve to lead my people."

Balin rubbed his brow, still annoyed.

"Self-pity is a luxury we don't have, my lord," he said pointing to a tent on the left.

Thrain stood just outside the opening and saw Thorin settling Frerin back against the cushions before moving to Dis and cradled her in his arms. She looked so frail in her stained, pink dress, her almost-black hair falling out of its elaborate braids.

"All will be well, little gem," he said softly as she cried in his arms. Blood bubbled from her nose.

"I want Mama! Where's Mama? Why did she have to die?"

Thorin buried his face for a moment in his sister's small shoulder, and a tremor ran through his body.

 _What more can happen?_  he thought.  _What more?_   _How much lower can we sink? What else can be taken away, no, stolen from me?_

All at once, despair washed over him, and he bit his lip not to cry out. He knew he had to be strong, always strong for her, for them. As the eldest, he was never to show weakness, never to be anything less than perfect, yet he knew that he had failed them by letting the dragon steal both their home and mother. Did not Frerin look at him just now with anger, and did not Dis turn away in condemnation? Was he not guilty? Somehow the notion that his father and the king were more to blame did not cross his mind. It was much easier to take everything on himself and control what he could than leave things to others.

Then he lifted his head and pushed strands of her thick hair away from her cheek. Holding her carefully, he held the salve to her nose and encouraged her to breathe deeply. Thorin's wavy hair began to curl from the billows of steam that came from the cauldrons, and his tunic grew damp. The pungent smell of the salve wafted out the tent flap along with clouds of hot steam, obscuring Thrain's vision, although he heard his son's next words all too well.

"I know, little one, I miss her too. We all do. Forgive me."

Thorin felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked up to see his father standing over him.

"That's enough, son," he said. "I'll take over from here. Go get some rest."

Then Thrain ordered the other nobles to work with the healers to help all those in the infirmary tents. Thorin gave instructions to the healers, kissed his sister, and then clapped his brother on the shoulder and smiled faintly..

"Obey the healers, Frerin," he said, "and be strong. Dis needs your example."

Then he turned to Thrain.

"Father, we must discuss some developments arising from our being here," he said urgently. "The ruler of this land …" but Thrain waved his hand.

"There's nothing more important now than seeing my son and daughter recover," he said firmly. "I'm sure you can handle such minor diplomatic matters."

"Minor?" Thorin said aghast, "father, the prince here plans …."

But Thrain held up his hand.

"Enough, son," he ordered. "I've neglected my children for too long already, and it's my responsibility to care for my people, starting with my own family. Balin can help you make whatever arrangements of payment are needed."

Thorin walked outside with his shoulders slumped. Balin had heard every word and shook his head.

"He swings from one extreme to another, doesn't he, laddie?" Balin asked knowingly.

Thorin nodded and then frowned.

"I'll not have any malign my father, the prince," he declared. He put his hand on Balin's shoulder and gripped it hard. "Not even you, my friend, so not another word."

Balin nodded, and both dwarves looked off into the hills toward the kingdom of Queen Miraine and reviewed in the events of the day and her words in their minds. The queen seemed sincere enough, and Thorin was a good judge of character, but he felt uneasy and knew by the nervous energy radiating from him that Balin did as well.

"Do you think we can trust her?" Balin asked after several minutes passed.

Thorin did not need to ask who he meant to understand.

"No," he said. "She underestimates her son. Prepare for an attack tonight."


	4. Being All He Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin prepares for a surprise attack while struggling over his identity and responsibilities as prince-in-exile. Meanwhile, eligible females make their move.

Thorin sent runners throughout the camp to gather what remained of the royal guard and army soldiers.

"Don't alarm anyone," he said quietly as he looked them in the eye, "but find our warriors and ask them to gather those with battle experience, even if it was only in the training ring. Tell them to meet me here in one hour."

After they bowed and left he turned to Balin.

"Inform the king and my father at once," he said, boring his eyes into Balin's doubting face.

"Thorin …," he began before sighing heavily and nodding. "Aye, it will be done."

"Balin."

The graying dwarf stopped in his tracks and looked over his shoulder.

"I am not the king nor the crown prince," Thorin said sternly, "so until such time as I am, we inform them of all matters of import."

Balin's lip curled with resentment before he could stop it.

"Even if they do nothing about them?"

Thorin held himself rigid as he nodded tightly.

"Even if."

Walking to the crest of a nearby hill, Thorin looked over the gently sloping, green valley to the bluish ridge of hills beyond, shielding his eyes with his hand against the dropping spring sun. Beyond the hills lay bogs and swamps, and beyond those were scattered villages, and beyond those were the lands of Laketown, and beyond that was …. He let his hand fall. All along the way, the graves of his people dotted the landscape like little bumps in an already rocky road. They deserved better than freshly spaded earth and a clump of flowers. They deserved their richly carved, family vaults. No. More than that. They deserved not to die at all and be buried like common refuse in pits and by the sides of roads. Thorin insisted on saying a few words at every burial. He always kept his head down as his deep voice offered sincere words of both praise and condolence. Weeping openly, his people honored him for his respect for their kin, even the poorest of them, while he tried not to look into the faces of those who survived. He could not bear their tearful gratitude.

Feeling restless, he shrugged his shoulders and arched his back. There was too much space here, too much  _air_. He was used to the comfort and security of hard stone and had never felt so exposed before. Even though he knew it was strategically unwise to place the camp at the base of a semi-circle of cliffs, he could not fault his father's choice. All of them felt more secure pressed up against stone even if it left them with no way out if attacked. He looked to the left. A wide-ranging forest and swift stream provided plenty of fresh game and trout. If only they could have stayed for six months, long enough for everyone to fully heal and regroup.

Thorin squeezed his large fists with frustration. How much more could they endure? How much more would they have to? All at once, he envisioned long years of lonely traveling as a vagabond people, never truly welcome anywhere, never belonging any place, and always nearly begging for their needs while forgetting their wants. What kind of life was that? He shook his head and kicked the toe of his boot into the ground. What did he want? He did not know anymore. Besides, what he wanted he could not have, which was his family restored to him sane and whole. He felt adrift, rootless, like a stone cleaved from the side of a mountain and left to tumble down the valley to land who knows where, unprotected and alone and no longer part of a whole.

 _Does no one else feel this sense of being alone in a crowd?_  he wondered.

Then he took a deep breath and shook himself out of his melancholy. It served no purpose, and he decided to think on what few blessings they had. Thank Mahal that not all the dwarves from Erebor were within the mountain that morning! That was a small though comforting thought. Many were traveling and others taking care of business. Soon enough caravans would arrive and reunite families and bring more resources for all. Thorin smiled, remembering Balin's bubbling eagerness at the news that his wife realized that she was with child while visiting kin and would join him when the babe was ready to travel. Balin's younger brother will go with them as escort. Thorin had never met Balin's younger brother who lived with another branch of the Fundin clan, although he told many of tale of his brother's prowess in battle.

 _I look forward to meeting him,_  Thorin thought.  _I could use a …._

He exhaled and forced his mind to the task at hand and assessed the camp's strengths and weaknesses. The camp looked pitifully small with its concentric rings of light brown, woolen tents. What a far cry from their mountain palace, but even in its design the camp resembled the hierarchy of Erebor with the warriors and guards inhabiting the outermost ring for protection. From there working inward came the miners and metal workers and then merchants and tradesmen. Next to them were the stone masons and artisans and then scholars and scribes. Nobles and advisors surrounded the royal family in the center group of tents with the whole of the camp dedicated to protecting them and fighting to the death for their lives. The infirmary and tents of the healers were set apart with a ring of warriors around them in case of contagious disease. All but the nobles and royal family were reduced to using a common pit latrine, although curtains provided some privacy. Thorin sighed. They still needed so much, but village after village turned them away, claiming that their numbers were too great to support for any length of time, and those that allowed them to stay temporarily charged double for food, cloth to make tents, and iron implements. Thorin chuckled wryly.

 _They thought we were rich,_  he recalled.  _They thought our pockets were all stuffed with jewels as if we had time to pack. We were rich, rich with everything we wanted and needed. And now …._

He squeezed his eyes shut against the memory.

The dwarves bartered where they could, and Thorin, himself, picked up the hammer along with others to work in the villages until late into the night, although he wore a simple tunic and breeches so they would never know he was a prince. That humiliation was too much to bear. The prince who once poured molten gold to make gifts for his mother and sister now hammered out horse shoes and mended notched ax blades. The work was menial but honest; the men, however, were not and often changed the terms of payment. Ignorant and bigoted phrases he had never heard in his life to describe him and his people were casually bandied about everyday as though all of mankind thought them something akin to strange curiosities or misbegotten monsters.

"Is it true that dwarf men have a third leg?" a balding and paunchy man asked one day when he came by the forge to pick up his order. Thorin's brows furrowed at his question, but he quickly caught on when the other men burst out laughing.

"Well, me cousin's wife heard something like that," the man said, holding up his hands in mocking defense. "Not that she's had  _personal_  experience, mind you."

Thorin turned away with his ears burning. The men suddenly stopped laughing when they saw him twist a newly forged horse shoe into a knot.

The spring breeze lifted a lock of hair and blew it behind one ear. They were forced to move on the next day.

Looking again over the camp, he saw dwarves gathering at the base of the cliff, and he hiked down to join them. Together, he and Balin told them what happened with Queen Miraine and her son. The rag-tag group looked around with dismay at their few and ill-equipped numbers. Thorin stared resolutely at the decimated royal guard and bolstered their spirits with reminders of their courage in battle. Once they numbered in the hundreds, and now only 40 or so remained. However, able, young dwarrow and those eager to defend what was left of their families, joined in with tools and other homemade weapons.

"If anything is to happen," Thorin said as he paced in front of them, "it's likely to come after they think we're asleep. Therefore, we must post lookouts in shifts throughout the night along the perimeter of the camp. We must also be prepared to fight at any moment, so eat your fill now and those not on shift get some rest. We'll wake you soon enough."

He dismissed them with words of encouragement and praise and kept his chin held high until the last dwarf rounded the corner. Then he hugged himself in the cooling, afternoon air and bowed his head. Balin clapped him on the shoulder. How many in these lands wished that all dwarves had died at Erebor? Thorin stroked his beard in worry. When will they come and how many more of his people would die?

"Come and get some food yourself, laddie, while we have the light," he said as he urged Thorin to join the others trooping towards the dining tents. "It'll do you no good to go into a fight hungry."

Shaking his head, the young prince pulled away. "No, I'd better see to Frerin and Dis."

He took a step forward, but Balin planted himself in his way with a stern look on his face.

"Uh, uh, lad," he said firmly, "your father's there now and he needs to feel the responsibility of his family. You eat."

They each held their ground until, with a grudging nod, Thorin allowed Balin to lead him to the tents. The dwarves all stood and bowed and offered their tables for his private use.

"No need to…," he began to say, but Balin tugged at his arm.

"They want to honor you, Thorin," he whispered, "so let them. It does them good to see their prince retain his place. Gives them something to be proud of."

Thorin did not think himself worthy of their honor, not after the trouble his family had caused, but if treating him with deference restored their pride, he would not take that away from them even if he felt nothing but shame for displacing them from their table as surely as his kin did from Erebor. He glanced around and, as he nodded to his people, he saw them stand a little straighter with a new light in their eyes. With so little to be proud of now, they seemed even more eager to revere him and, after a moment's internal struggle, he accepted it graciously.

 _So be it then,_ he thought fiercely _. I will be worthy of their respect and honor_.  _If they need a prince to look up to, then I will be all they need me to be. I am an heir of Durin after all, and I give my life to make up for all the wrong done to them._

Straightening to his full height, which had him towering over most other dwarves, he nodded regally and sat down. Tittering dwarrowdams brought out turkey and root vegetable stew made from yesterday's leftovers. Balin looked up and grinned. The dwarf women had smoothed their hair and adjusted their blouses and skirts to show their assets to best advantage. Thorin had few occasions to interact with them at Erebor, but protocols were more relaxed now by necessity, and they set out to make the most of it.

"Would you like a full breast or a plump thigh with your stew, my prince?" one young server purred in a low, throaty voice. She leaned far over the platter, far enough to almost push her ample cleavage into his face. Balin rubbed his nose while trying to hide a smirk. He remembered her from Erebor—Delia, Melia—no—Smelia was her name. Her obvious attempts to catch Thorin's eye over the years made for many a joke among the council members.

Balin smothered a chuckle as he remembered her schemes to attract Thorin's attention at Erebor. More times than he could count, she just happened to be walking up the stairs ahead of them with her skirt lifted above her ankles to give Thorin a flash of shapely leg. Other times, when serving at the royal table, she would sashay in with her platters, swinging her ample hips, and bending over to give Thorin a good look at her watermelon-sized breasts. She could do little else with the royal family present, but now, in this more casual setting, she took every opportunity to brush his shoulder and press up against him as she served his food and drink. The other dwarf women tossed their heads at her display and gossiped together, mocking her obvious efforts while they tried more subtle tactics.

"Steaming hot and  _always_  available, my prince," another one said softly as she slowly ladled stew into his bowl. "The kitchen will always be open to  _you_ , my lord." A sleeve of her low-cut blouse slipped off her shoulder. "And a roll on the side, your highness? It's very moist and tender—unlike the old bread others are serving." She glared at Smelia as she said that last.

The dwarves, who had reseated themselves after Thorin took his place, watched with glee. With so much misery constantly before them, they took whatever amusement they could find with gusto.

"They all plan to be his wife, do you think?" one dwarf asked his companions. "I can't imagine the prince going for one of them though stranger matches have been made."

"Nah, Doldir," another said jerking his head over to where they stood waiting for Thorin to want something from them—anything. "He'd not take any of these as wife, although he could take any or all of them to bed and not a one would complain."

The dwarves watched Thorin nod his appreciation and eat quietly.

"Does he not notice them then?" a grimy dwarf asked. "They couldn't be more forward. If I had one o' them bobbing her chest at me, I'd be as quick as a hammer on an anvil!"

The dwarves all laughed heartily.

"That'll be the day that I see any of ours offering her wares to you, Loger, you stinky, old sod," an old dwarf cackled as he slapped his knee. Then the dwarves turned and eyed their women with detached assessment as if they were discussing the attributes of a fine ale or gemstone.

"Aye, prince or no, that Smelia is a meaty armful, and any dwarf could forget himself with her," another said. Then he lowered his voice. "And I've heard that many did at Erebor."

The dwarves all nodded in agreement. Many a handsome dwarf had his first time with the always-willing lass, although she made no secret of her desire to add Thorin to her list of conquests.

"But not our prince even though she's been after him since he came of age," Doldir said with a note of pride. "He's too noble to take a tumble with her or any of them." He cocked his head and wondered aloud. "Perhaps what happened to King Thror put him off."

One of his companions grabbed the back of his neck and shook him.

"Don't speak of such things, Doldir, you fool," Loger said in a hushed voice. "The prince simply hasn't found his own, that's all, and now's not the time in any case."

"Aye," another said in a low voice, "but do ya think  _the_  passion will take him when he finds her?"

The dwarves turned to watch Thorin eat while he outlined battle strategies with Balin.

"Aye, I do," Doldir said, "and may Mahal help us when it does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show the old saying that "it's lonely at the top," not that a number of dwarf women might want to remedy that situation....


	5. Mists of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves prepare for imminent attack, and Thorin disguises himself to walk among his people, but his being disguised has unintended consequences.

Balin walked up behind Thorin as he supervised the installing of sharpened tree branches and poles in the ground around the cliff base. If any man tried to climb down the rock face, he would find a nasty, pointed surprise at the bottom.

"Did you eat enough, laddie?" Balin asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Hmm? Yes, it was plenty," Thorin said off-handedly as he oversaw the work.

Balin grinned. Thorin directed the dwarves to add another row of pikes.

"Sooo, there was nothing else they offered that you wanted?"

The puckish dwarf watched Thorin still and his back tense.

"Don't start, Balin," he grumbled in his deep voice.

The old advisor rubbed his mouth and told himself that he should leave Thorin alone, but he couldn't help one last jab.

"You do  _like_  lasses, don't you? Any would be happy to ease your troubles."

Thorin exhaled and turned to face him with a grim look.

"Or add to them. I've no interest in being one of many."

Balin opened his mouth to protest, but Thorin raised his hand and one eyebrow.

"I've no doubt that it would be the talk of the camp should I …," he began uncomfortably and flicked his hand to dismiss the subject. "Besides that's not fit example to set for anyone. What would Frerin and Dis say if they hear of it? At any rate, now's not the time to consider…," and he trailed off and let his eyes wander back to the work at hand.

Balin watched his face carefully and heaved a sigh of his own. He knew that Thorin now carried the burdens of a king, whether he realized it or not, and he saw his cares and worries begin to carve creases between his brows and frown lines on his forehead. Why the lad should be learning under his father and grandfather, not carrying the weight of the kingdom in crisis all alone! He tamped down another surge of frustration toward his prince and liege. Someone ought to hit Thror over the head with his crown! And as for Thrain …. Balin huffed with anger. He never thought he would never see the day that the Durins failed to meet their obligations to their people for no other reason than self-importance. Praise Mahal for Thorin! Balin took another look at the prince as he strode forward to inspect the defenses and gather the dwarves to carry out their other plans.

 _The lad works too hard though,_ Balin thought as he schemed. _He barely eats and hardly sleeps. A soft and lovely distraction would be good for him. Anything to see him smile again._

Balin stroked his long beard and thought hard. Perhaps a slight push in the right direction was all he needed.

"Ah! You prefer keeping things on the sly, do you?" he asked with his finger by his nose. "With a camp as large this and a forest nearby, there's plenty of places for privacy. No need to tell all, no need. I'll not speculate on who she is. Say no more," and the grinning dwarf bustled away, hoping that he took the hint.

Thorin sighed as he watched the king's advisor trot away. In truth, he had never taken a lover or even had what many dwarrow boast about when hoisting pints of ale with their companions. No hot kisses and eager fumblings in the night. Dwarves were a passionate people, to be sure, and did not believe in hiding or suppressing their emotions, but though Thorin was a virile dwarf in his prime, he had watched too much sorrow come from love and, at the moment, he seriously doubted its value. What good is something that drives one mad? It seemed to him more a poison than a gift. And what of this grand passion of the dwarves? Look what it did to his family! His people! He shuddered slightly as he remembered his grandfather's mad mutterings.

 _No,_ he thought firmly. _Such a thing is worse than useless. It's dangerous. Grandfather said that I'd fall hard, but I'd have to let myself, and that will NEVER happen! It's enough to see my people safe and secure. I want and need nothing more. Nothing. EVER._

However, deep in his heart, in a place he no longer visited or even believed to still exist, there lived a wisp of longing for a fair maiden he could cherish, one who would warm his heart and his bed with as much passion for him as he held for her. Before Smaug he wondered what she would look like and how he would meet her, but he could never envision a face, and duty more often than not pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. Now that once tender and carefully cherished dream was left to die in cold reality as he turned, stone-faced, to prepare his people to fight once more.

* * *

With the dwarf men all gathered, the few women and children who remained, along with the sick, were moved to the center of the camp. Night had fallen, and a heavy fog rolled in from over the hills to shroud everything and everyone in an eerie mist. Dwarves lit fires in braziers to keep watch and warm the chill air. Thorin felt restless and decided to stretch his legs and scout around the camp to check on their preparations, but he wanted to do so with as little fuss as possible. Spying a guard standing by himself wearing a light gray cloak, he walked up with a request.

"Nergil, please lend me your cloak," he asked the startled guard. The dwarf's eyes widened in surprise, and slid to a clump of trees a little ways away from the camp.

"Oh, aye, my lord," he said a second later and slowly handed over his cloak.

"I thank you," Thorin said. "I wish to scout the perimeter unobserved."

Nergil nodded slowly and frowned as he walked away to his post, while Thorin walked among his people as one of them for the first time.

The mist obscured everyone's vision, and Thorin was grateful. He felt oddly light and free not to be recognized by anyone, and he hunched slightly to hide his height as walked up to one of the fires to warm his hands.

"Do ya think something'll come of the prince's orders?" one black-bearded dwarf asked a companion with burn scars on half his face. The other dwarf held out his hands—one was missing two fingers—to the flames.

"I hope not," he replied, "but, aye, Prince Thorin and Balin wouldn't a put us on alert for no reason."

The other dwarf nodded.

"Shrewd codger, that advisor," he said chuckling, "and they wouldn't a moved the sick unless they thought it was serious. What say you, Nergil?"

Thorin said nothing until one of the dwarves bumped his shoulder hard, and he reared up only to remember how he appeared to them, so he nodded with a grunt.

"Aye," he mumbled. "'Tis true enough."

"What?" another dwarf said leaning forward. "Cat got yer tongue, lad? I've never known you to be so quiet."

Thorin made a show of clearing his throat and shrugged as he stepped away. Walking in and among the tents, he heard the voices of his people as he never had before. The deep rumble of fathers' voices encouraging their too-young sons as they prepared for battle drifted out into the night air from tent after tent while husbands touched foreheads with their wives in tender moments. Others tried to quiet their relatives and friends who had lost their minds and were babbling in fear. Widowed dwarrowdams mumbled as they packed up what little they still had of value and prepared to flee into the woods if need be. Thorin listened to them all and then he heard a dwarf calming his worried wife.

"Oh, Mored, how much more must we endure?" she cried softly into a handkerchief. "I'm so afraid for them to come tonight, but I'm just as afraid for them not to."

Thorin could not help but stop and listen in,and he heard the crunch and rustle of the couple sitting down on their grass-stuffed mattress.

"What do you mean, love?" he asked. She cried even harder. "Hush darling! We can't dishearten the others."

"If they don't come tonight, we'll have to live in constant dread and fear of attack. How can we do that? How can we live like that?"

Thorin stood frozen next to the flap of their tent, wondering the same thing. He heard a sigh.

"Because we're hardy folk, sweetness, and we're built to endure. Besides, Mahal hasn't left us adrift."

His wife sniffled and then snorted. "He may as well have for what has befallen us! Where's our king and crown prince? Where are they? They've all but abandoned us."

Thorin felt his throat choke.

"Hush!" the husband said sternly. "We're not leaderless. Look at Prince Thorin now. Look at all he's done."

The tent grew quiet for a moment, and Thorin heard the wife mumble.

"Aye, perhaps, but we need Prince Thrain and King Thror now.  _Real_  warriors. Thror's grandson is but a lad."

Thorin turned his head in shame and trudged away, missing the dwarf's last words.

"No, my dear, not anymore."

* * *

Balin patrolled one end of the camp while Thorin checked on all the defenses and his brother and sister.

"Hullo, little gem," he said wearily. Then he brightened for her sake. "How are you feeling?"

The tiny princess stirred in her cot and smiled up at her brother.

"Better, I think, Thorin," she said with an endearing smile. "My chest doesn't hurt so bad now."

Then he turned to his brother who was coughing up small amounts of blood into a rag.

"And you, Frerin?"

The young dwarf grimaced and tried to put on a brave air.

"It doesn't hurt...," he said as he winced from another spasm and coughed again into the mottled cloth, "much."

Thorin's brow furrowed, and he motioned to a healer to give them both water to drink and clean cloths to use.

"Where's father?" he asked. A sudden snore answered his question. Frerin raised his brows significantly but said nothing at his father flopped on a cot sound asleep. He had grown up since Smaug and understood the world better. Thorin mourned the early loss of his childhood and that he no longer saw him as his hero, but then again, it was a heavy load to bear and Thorin thought practically that they were both the better for it. He would need Frerin's help in the days to come and by the look on his brother's face, he knew it too.

"Father is tired from taking care of us is all, Thorin," Dis said innocently. "It's hard work to take care of the sick, but he did say for us to wake him in an hour."

Thorin told himself not to react for her sake, and he nodded approvingly as if all was well, and Frerin followed his lead.

"I'll be back shortly," he said with a forced smile, and he headed out of the tent determined not to dwell on the despairing thoughts swirling in his mind.

Passing by another tent, he heard the sounds of laughter that drew him like a moth to flame since they were so rare. A female dwarfling even younger than Dis was tossing a wooden ball with bells inside back and forth to her little brother. A bad throw sent the ball rolling out the tent at Thorin's feet. She ran out and stopped short at the warrior standing in front of her. Sticking her finger in her mouth, she looked down at the ball with big eyes but made no move to get it. The mother pushed aside the flap and smiled affectionately.

"Oh, thank you, Nergil, for getting that for Drina," she said as she turned back to pack. "She's always losing it."

Thorin stooped down, picked up the ball, and handed it back to the child, but her wide smile fell when she peered into his face.

"You aren't Nergil," she said accusingly, "but you're wearing his cloak."

Thorin hesitated and then pushed the hood back, and she clapped her hands over her mouth.

"He lent it to me for a time," he said softly. "Here is your ball, my lady."

She stepped forward carefully like a fawn in the open until she stood before him. Taking the ball shyly, she turned and rolled it back into the tent. Then she threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank you, Prince Thorin, thank you for saving us all!" she cried. Her mother came to the opening and gasped.

"Drina!" she whispered horrified when she realized who was before her. "Step away this instant! You mustn't touch a member of the royal family!"

Immediately, she dropped to her knees and begged forgiveness.

But Thorin shifted his weight so he could pick up Drina up in his arms.

"Please stand," he said holding her daughter easily, "it's quite all right. I'm not offended. Indeed, our children are to be cherished by us all."

Encouraged, Drina hugged him again, and he set her down carefully, bowed formally, and kissed her hand. She giggled, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Now stay in the tent with your mother until the morning, Drina," he said seriously. "It's important."

They both curtsied, although Drina wobbled a bit. Then Thorin nodded to her mother and put his hood back up and walked away.

"He's very handsome, Mama," Drina said awe-struck as he faded away into the mist.

Her mother took a deep breath. She had seen for herself all that he had sacrificed for their sakes. She had seen him among the other dwarves while she waited for her husband, the prince as grimy and sweaty as the other smiths and workers who trudged for miles back to the camp far later into the night and with less in their pockets than they should have.

"And he loves us like a king should."

* * *

Thorin took a drink at one of the water urns stationed around the camp and saw a flutter of something from behind a stand of trees. Suspicious, he walked up carefully with his fingers on the pommel of his sword when a surprisingly strong hand shot out and pulled him up against a tree. Balin happened to be walking by some distance away, and his face split into a wide grin. Thorin was so shocked that he was momentarily speechless, although he understood then Nergil's initial reluctance to hand over his cloak. A firm talk was needed later.

"Oh, Nergil," a throaty voice murmured, "you don't know how long I've waited for this, for you. I know the time's not right, but I couldn't wait any longer, my handsome dwarf."

With that, the darkly silhouetted dwarrowdam pressed up against Thorin, rubbing his shoulders, chest, and abdomen. She stroked his muscular biceps and nearly swooned.

"How strong," she whispered, "how powerful. Nergil, I never knew.…"

Thorin opened his mouth to say something when she surged up and pressed her lips against his. Plump and soft, her lips moved forcefully against his as she tried to deepen the kiss. Thorin would have been lying to say that he felt nothing, but the slight stirring he did feel quickly fizzled in light of his resolution as well as the battle to come.

"Nergil," she panted against his neck, "what's wrong? You must know how much I want you, and how beautiful you are! We may only have tonight. Who knows what the future brings? I will give you such pleasure, my tempting dwarf."

"My lady…."

She froze at the rich, deep voice that most certainly was not Nergil's. In fact, she knew of only one who had that voice, one who made her knees turn to jelly and her stomach burn, one who drove her to tearful humiliation with his utter refusal to notice her.

Smelia stepped back, hoping against hope that she was wrong and decided to go on the attack.

"You're not Nergil!" she cried as she gathered her cloak about her nearly exposed bosom. "Show yourself."

He lowered the hood slowly and, even in the dim light, Smelia could not mistake the proudly noble face of Prince Thorin. She blanched and hurriedly curtsied.

"My lord!" she said. "Forgive me! I thought you were, were…."

"Evidently," Thorin interrupted with a wry twist of his lips. He held up his hands at her incoherent stammerings. "However, no harm done, and it will be forgotten,  _never_ to be mentioned again." Then he leaned closer to her than he ever had before. "However, the warriors must not be distracted tonight of all nights, so go back to your tent now and stay there." She gazed longingly into his gray-blue eyes, utterly frustrated that the one time she had his undivided attention, it was under such circumstances.

He turned to leave, but she could not let him go.

"Why don't you ever notice me?" she asked plaintively, finally giving voice to her pain. "I tried so hard for years, but you never noticed me."

Thorin was surprised. He never  _did_  notice her, although he was vaguely aware of her presence when she served and somewhat annoyed at how close she stood at times. He could not see her face clearly since she stepped back into the shadows, but her voice said enough. In truth, she took a great risk in addressing him so freely since they were far from equals. She belonged to the working class of servants, and under normal circumstances, they would only be in the same room together when she served the food. They never had or will have any other interaction, although Thorin was not ignorant and knew that even nobles sometimes dallied with comely servants who profited from the arrangement. However, he owed her no explanation and, indeed, was within his rights to have her punished for touching him—no—practically assaulting him. She deserved nothing and should not even be speaking to him this way, but he stepped closer.

"I will not have happen to me what has happened to our king, my grandfather," he said softly. "I owe all of you more than that."

She looked down, more humiliated by his kindness than if he was angry at her. There was no flush on his cheeks, no quickened breath, and no effort to hold himself back from giving in. She looked into his face and saw—nothing. No passion, no desire, no want in his eyes. She tempted him not a whit and never had, and she blushed deeply in the dark, knowing now that she had only embarrassed herself all those years. He never gave her more of a thought than any other subject of his kingdom.

She knew she should leave now and save what was left of her shredded dignity, but her desire for him was so fierce that she could not help but try one last time.

"But, but, my lord," and she dropped her eyes, "I would not ask for your love. I'd be satisfied just to have your … company."

Her meaning was plain enough, but he turned away.

"Among others, my lady?" he said as gently as he could over his shoulder. "I would not dishonor one of our own in such a way. We, Durins, do nothing by halves, and my body will follow what my heart decides, and I have decided that love is something I can easily do without."

Then he strode away into the night, leaving her weeping.

* * *

Balin nearly danced with glee when he found Thorin later standing in front of the camp.

"Pleasant night, after all, lad?"

Thorin furrowed his brow, confused by Balin's insinuation.

"I hope it remains so," he replied glumly. Balin's winking smile fell.

"What's amiss?"

Thorin looked over the camp, feeling like he overlooked something in their defenses. Suddenly, one of the soldiers stumbled and knocked into the brazier, sending a shower of sparks toward one of the tents.

"Careful there, ya great oaf!" a guard cried. "Ya don't want to set the camp on fire now, do ya?"

Thorin closed his eyes. Dwarvish tactics depended on meeting the enemy head on in a fair fight, but he had since learned that men do not fight fair. He gripped Balin's shoulder.

"Move all the tents next to the cliff wall out of arrow range even if you have to break them down," he said urgently, "and sent dwarves to the stream to fill as many cauldrons as we can. Gather as many sacks and blankets as you can and wet them down."

"What's ado?" Balin asked as he looked around.

Thorin shouted out his orders and called another group of dwarves to move all the water urns to the rear of the camp.

"We planned to face them head on in honor, Balin," he said as he broke into a run, "but we didn't plan for them to burn us alive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted Thorin to be able to ease his load for a bit and walk among his people as an equal. Thoughts?


	6. Flames of Fury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dwarves are attacked by a band of vengeful men. Who is among them and who will survive?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit graphic, but it is less than happened in many parts of the world in times past and, sadly, today.

_But we didn't plan for them to burn us alive._

A smothering silence hung over the camp like a heavy, wool blanket in the middle of hot and sticky summer. The dwarves moved purposefully but with as little noise as possible. They knew that despite all their efforts, they were still frighteningly exposed with flimsy tents and few true weapons among them. No one wanted to speak lest they somehow break the spell of calm and bring disaster. Silence was good, silence meant that all was well—for the moment—but silence never lasts.

Just after Thorin had realized Eldor's likely plan of attack, the dwarves ran to obey his orders; that is, until Prince Thrain swaggered among them in all his over-dressed glory. He had settled Frerin and Dis safely and now tried to relieve his guilt by reasserting his authority. Pushing past Thorin, he threw his shoulders back and stood in front of him.

"What's the meaning of all this?" he asked as he puffed out his chest, ready to take command. "All armed and able-bodied dwarves should be stationed at the front."

Dwarves stopped with sloshing water urns in their hands, and their eyes drifted to Thorin. Thrain followed their uneasy looks and saw their allegiance to his son. However, he thought that it was only due to his being busy with others matters, matters that  _were_  important but had taken up too much of his time. Thorin did well enough, he supposed, but it was now clear that his son lacked experience. A guiding hand, aye, a firm, guiding hand would do the trick. Meanwhile, his subjects remained loyal to the Durins and looked to Thorin in his absence. Thrain nodded. That was proper, but now that their crown prince stood among them, things would return to their natural and rightful course. He was sure of it.

"All dwarves come with me to the front," he said impressively with his stout legs spread wide and his fists bunched on his hips.

The dwarves' collective gaze swung back to Thorin, and he nodded slightly. They put down their urns and followed Thrain quietly but without the urgency that Thorin's orders commanded. Balin watched from a tent opening and shook his head. Strong backs were needed to break down tents and pull back the grain stores, food supplies, and anything else that could burn, but now that Thrain siphoned off the strongest dwarves, the other work would not be completed in time.

"We should have fire-proofed the rear of the camp first like you ordered," Balin whispered as he walked over. "Now we're set back hours while this lot sits out there and does nothing."

"That's enough, Balin," Thorin said quietly. "We'll round-up those who are left to help. Perhaps nothing will happen tonight after all."

Balin's eyes narrowed.

"You don't believe that and neither do I," he said.

Thorin looked around at all that still needed to be done, and he sighed.

Hours later, all was still quiet as time reached into the deep blackness of night. Meanwhile, the dwarves' nerves had stretched like over-tightened viol strings. They jumped and twitched at every sound, while those who had gone mad sat as still as tree stumps and passed the time listening in amusement to the rasping wheezes of their own breath.

Suddenly, the noise of heavy footsteps pounded closer as dwarves ran into the camp.

"Horsemen, my Lord Thorin!" one cried into the stillness. "Many and heavily armed!"

A low moan sounded throughout the camp as though from a huge, wounded animal, and Thorin ran to the front with his sword drawn. He heard the staccato beat of horse hooves in the distance, and his heart sank knowing that they could never repel so many. As the horses and riders swiftly rounded the rocky edges of the cliff base, Thorin peered through the darkness lighted only by random torches to see a man in front wearing chain mail and royal insignia. He had shoulder-length, dark hair and looked too large and broad-shouldered to be Prince Eldor. The scrawny, big-nosed prince also did not have gray at his temples, nor mustache and beard. Thorin's eyes burned to recognize Lord Henrin leading the others. He growled low in his throat at this betrayal to both himself and, he suspected, Queen Miraine, and he half-crouched with his legs apart and braced himself for the battle to come.

However, as the horses drew closer, Henrin held up a gloved hand and slowed, bouncing in his saddle slightly as his cantering stallion dropped to a brisk trot. The men behind him also slowed and fanned out to form a line completely enclosing the camp. Thrain warned them off and called for the dwarves to draw their weapons, but Henrin ignored him and rode up to Thorin. In full view of both dwarves and men, he pulled out his sword, held it aloft, and sheathed it. The dwarves grumbled among themselves, wondering if this obvious peace-offering was a ruse intended to catch them off-guard.

"What's the meaning of your coming armed into our camp?" Thorin demanded, holding his sword at the ready. Thrain strode over to second Thorin's question, but Henrin ignored him and kept his eyes on the younger prince. A smile tugged on one side of his mouth as he scanned the camp and noted its defenses, and he looked down from his horse with new respect for the dwarf prince who was clearly a shrewd strategist. In a smooth move, he dismounted and handed his reins to his second-in-command.

"We're of the same mind tonight, are we not, Prince Thorin?" he asked with a trace of bitter irony. "Queen Miraine is the kindest lady there is, but she's no fool, although you thought she underestimated Eldor, didn't you?"

Thorin knitted his brows as he considered this new information. The queen was more of a realist than he thought, and he spared a moment of sorrow for the wise queen who had such a son.

"Aye," he said curtly, "but that doesn't answer my question."

Henrin nodded and cleared his throat.

"At the command of our queen," he said loud enough for the assembled dwarves to hear, "we offer our swords and bows in defense of your people against, erm, a band of traitorous outlaws that was seen near here not long ago, for it is not our custom to give travelers through our lands such a cold welcome."

The dwarves loosened their grips on their weapons, but Thrain shouldered through and planted himself before Lord Henrin.

"Are we to take the word of a leader of rabble now?" he sneered, ignoring Thorin's alarm. "How do we know that this isn't a ploy for us to lower our guard? Perhaps we should take you prisoner as leverage."

At that, Henrin's men scowled, and several rode up on either side of him, but he waved them away and turned to Thrain with assessing eyes. Thorin hurriedly introduced them and then pulled his father aside.

"We're in a precarious position already, father," he said seriously, "and allies are thin on the ground."

Thrain looked over at Henrin with a contemptuous huff.

"This mere man thinks himself so lordly, but he's nothing compared to us, and his kingdom nothing compared to Erebor!"

Thorin scrabbled together the scraps of patience he had left.

"Erebor," he began somberly, "is lost for now, and we are not what we were. We will be again, but now we must accept his help. Father, for our people's sake."

Henrin walked up to them both and waved his hands.

"We've no time for this," he said. "It took some hours for Eldor to gather those willing, but they're even now on the move, and so we must be ready."

Suddenly, screams came from the camp as a shower of bright lights shot out over the cliff to rain on the dwarves below. Thorin and the others turned in horror, and Henrin quickly mounted his horse and called for his men to hold the line in the front while he took a group of fighters to ride up to the top of the cliff.

"May we all survive this night!" he shouted as he beckoned the others with a wave of his arm. Pulling tightly on the reins, he wheeled his horse around and disappeared into the dark while the dwarves ran to fight the flames that were already ravaging dry brush at the rear of the camp. Thorin ran with the others and grabbed soaking-wet blankets to beat out the flames at the base of the cliff. All the able-bodies dwarves, both young and old, slapped wet blankets, towels, and spare clothes against the patches of fire that sprung from where the arrows landed.

"Drench the perimeter!" Balin shouted. "Make a fire-break!"

Burly dwarves hoisted over large cauldrons of water in time to catch the next volley. Arrows sizzled and smoked in the wet grass, and dwarves doused bushes and tall stands of grass in defense. Then a large kettle of burning oil tipped over the top of the cliff and came roaring down the rocks like lava. For a moment, everyone's skin glowed bright orange in the reflected light, and all felt burning heat on their faces and ears. Clouds of smoke rose through the air and choked those already struggling to breathe. With several soldiers around him, Balin moved Thror to safety, although the king seemed confused about where he was or what was happening. Some dwarves screamed and others shouted, but a shallow trench of water contained the liquid fire. It caused no immediate harm, but some splashed over the side and burned clumps of grass. Sparks rose in the air, and the dwarves looked up terrified, knowing that only a few were needed to start an inferno. More arrows flamed down, and dwarves fell to the ground writhing in agony from burning arrows sticking out of their legs, shoulders, and stomachs.

"Soak them!" Thorin shouted, and he worked with others to pull them out of arrow range. Thrain ordered more tents collapsed. Cries came as rows caught fire, and Thrain shouted that Frerin and Dis were trapped. Dwarves ran to help, and Thrain emerged with Frerin leaning hard on him.

"Your sister," Thrain gasped soot-streaked and coughing. Then came screams from the other end of the camp, the section where Drina lived. Thorin saw dwarves running in all directions and stopped between the tents, caught in an awful moment of indecision when he heard the screams of two dwarf girls.

"Dis!" He ran for his sister and got there just as a dwarf came out carrying her. After checking that she was well, he turned to see flames reaching for the skies. The screaming had stopped, and Thorin felt a strange ringing in his ears as time slowed and everyone moved at an unnatural pace. He slapped at his ears, wondering why he could not hear anything, and he shook his head as dwarves ran around him with their eyes and mouths open and moving soundlessly. Balin ran up to him, clearly speaking, but Thorin tilted his head in confusion and watched his lips move. Then faint shouts in the front of the camp grew louder, and the strike of steel on steel clanged in his ears. Time resumed its normal pace, and Thorin prayed as he ran into the skirmish with Balin that Henrin's men could and  _would_  fend off their attackers.

Eldor had indeed gathered a large assortment of angry men, but those who charged at the camp found, to their great surprise and dismay, better-armed soldiers waiting for them. The two lines crashed together like mighty ocean waves, and the more disciplined soldiers pushed Eldor's forces back. Men stabbed by spears fell off their horses to be trampled by the rest. Aiming for Thorin, one man jumped off his horse and knocked the dwarf prince down. The two grappled and rolled on the ground, barely missing the skittish feet of horses snorting and stamping in battle.

Reaching into his boot, the man pulled out a dagger and tried to stab him in the throat. Thorin flinched, and the knife tip plunged into his shoulder instead. The dwarf prince cried out in Khuzdul and grabbed the man's hand, using all his strength to push it away.

"Dirty, little runt!" the man grunted, and he hocked back and spit in Thorin's face. Enraged, Thorin braced one foot against the man's soft abdomen and with a mighty bellow kicked him to the side. Then he grabbed the dagger and stabbed him in the chest. A sucking sound and loud gurgle followed a spray of blood, and the man went limp. He got to his feet quickly. A dwarven knife whistled by his ear to stop another man charging him with a sword, and Thorin caught Balin's wink before he threw the dripping knife in his hand into the back of another man who fell face down into the bloody muck.

A small horse whinnied by, and Thorin called out to Balin, ignoring his concerned look at the blood streaming down his arm.

"Get as many as you can on horses. We have to get up the cliffs to stop this," and he swung himself up in the saddle and galloped around the corner and up the slope. Henrin's archers had picked off as many as they could, and then he sent in the rest to fight hand-to-hand. The dense forest cast strange shadows from the flames, and thick clumps of brush made it slow-going up the back slope. Thorin did his best to weave his horse through the trees, and he trampled a few men before he had to dismount and fight his way with the rest to the top. Once there, he saw Henrin with his sword pointing at the defenseless but unbowed Eldor. Some distance away, the steward's men stood in a circle around those they captured who sat with their hands clasped on their heads. The dead lay sprawled where they fell, their weapons tossed in a pile.

"You would slaughter thousands to avenge your brother, would you?" Henrin growled at the defiant prince.

"Aye!" he said strongly. "They killed my brother, and I'm only doing what's right and just."

Then Eldor sneered at Henrin.

"How dare you take up arms against me, steward!" he said haughtily. "I'll have you strung up in the square for this!"

Henrin smirked darkly and shook his head as he wagged his sword at him

"I came under the orders of your mother," he said, nodding in satisfaction at Eldor's sudden, blank look of shock, "and you didn't come to avenge your brother. You've never fooled me, Eldor. You came because you enjoy killing. You enjoy hurting others. I found your little torture room some time ago, and I saw the cats and dogs maimed and cut open, some while still alive. It's perversion, and you disgust me."

Eldor's face hardened into cruel lines.

"What of it? I'm a prince, and I'll do what I choose. Besides, I know you too, Henrin. You want my sister"—he looked the older man up and down with open disdain—even though she be 16 seasons and you well past 30, so don't talk to me about perversion."

Henrin snorted with fury, and all his muscles tensed like he was about to run him through. Eldor instinctively backed up a step, although he gloated openly.

"What will she say when she finds out that the one she looks up to like an uncle wants to bed her?"

"You'll never know, you mangy cur!"

Henrin lunged toward Eldor who jumped back and lost his footing at the edge of the cliff. Wheeling his arms in circles, he screamed as he tumbled. Thorin heard a sickening squelch and the screams of his people below and stepped up to the edge, looking with Hendrin to see Eldor impaled on one of the pikes.

The steward and dwarf prince then faced each other. Hendrin's eyes flickered down to see the large bloom of blood where Thorin was stabbed. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a cloth. The dwarf prince took it and let his hand fall to his side.

"You killed him."

"He fell. It was an accident."

"You knew how close he was to the edge and what would happen."

"He came to massacre your people like rabid dogs in the street. There's no honor in that."

"Nor in this."

"If you value your people's lives, you will say nothing. Eldor was a warped and twisted boy and had always been so. Our people would have suffered with him on the throne, but there was no way to depose him legally."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all. I'm merely letting you know where things stand."

"Does Queen Miraine know what you intended?

Henrin bowed his head and sighed heavily.

"No," he said, "she doesn't, so you will not speak of what you saw or heard here— _ever._ "

Thorin frowned and looked down at the clouds of acrid smoke rising from the camp. It was not in his nature to lie; such a thing was dishonorable. Henrin knowingly backed Eldor into a corner and caused him to fall, but he also understood that Henrin had a point. Eldor brought this ugly thing on himself. Was it not fitting then that he died as gruesomely as he apparently lived? He looked up at Henrin and examined his face. Somber brown eyes stared back at him. Who was this man and could he trust him? For all Thorin knew, Eldor was just replaced by someone as bad. What then? Henrin spoke.

"I know your race prefers honest confrontation, Prince Thorin," he began. He sighed and rubbed the side of his beard with his hand. "But I'm afraid that the world of men doesn't always have such principles. Perhaps it's because our lives are so short that we grab and grasp for whatever we can get knowing that it will all be gone too soon. I don't know. I swear to you though that I won't harm your people. Too much evil has been done already."

"And the princess?"

Henrin's eyes opened, and finally Thorin took his measure. He was relieved to see tenderness and genuine feeling. Relaxing slightly, he stuffed the cloth under his tunic against the wound.

"Eldor was right," he admitted, "but I know she doesn't return my feelings—yet."

Just then other dwarves emerged from the trees fully armed and spoiling for a fight. They ran up to Thorin.

"My lord?"

Thorin and Henrin regarded each other soberly. The air was heavy with unsaid words but at last Thorin spoke.

"Let us tend to the wounded and prepare the dead for burial. It's over—for now."


	7. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves pick up after night of fire and blood, and Thorin makes an unexpected discovery.

A golden dawn heralding a bright, summer day lit the haze of smoke that hung over the camp with a yellow glow. Dwarves milled about with Henrin's men and prepared to move to another place closer to the principal city at his invitation. No one wanted to stay at the scene of carnage where blood and mud mixed to make a gruesome sludge, and everyone stepped carefully around the spatters of battle gore. Groups of dwarves covered still-smoldering embers with dirt and poked charred timbers to make sure their flames were out while others stockpiled what was still usable. Those whose temporary dwellings burned stood huddled in clutches with whatever they were able to save while healers walked throughout the camp with bandages and sacks of herbs and ointments for those too injured to be moved just yet.

Thankfully, the men that Eldor recruited were none that Hendrin knew personally or felt remorse for killing. Almost all were thugs for hire or those with hot and ungovernable tempers, and he thought that justice was served in ridding the realm of them. Their bodies were disposed of quickly and without ceremony.

_The dwarves did us a service then._   _As long as Prince Thorin keeps his own counsel._

Eldor's body was discreetly removed, wrapped, and hidden from sight. All were grim as they went about their business while Thorin saw first to his own family. He had worried that the smoke smothered their fragile progress and choked the life out of them, so he mounted the first horse he saw to ride back into the camp. Shouting for directions, he made his way to the tents of the wounded and found his brother and sister weak but alive. Frerin glowered and pouted, upset that he could not fight with the others. Thorin inwardly scoffed at his brother's rashness while outwardly assuring him that he missed nothing important.  _A time will come when you will be called on to fight, little brother, but I'm grateful it was not this day._  Dis cried out in fear at Thorin's bloodied state, but he reassured them both as he stroked Dis' hair with his good arm that all was well and the danger had passed. Then he walked among the shrouded bodies laid on the ground, looking for yet dreading to see a small one with the others.

"Seventeen dead, my lord," he overheard Balin saying to his father. "It would have been many more if not for our defenses." Then Balin dipped his head, having made his point, and walked over to him. His breath hissed between his teeth when he saw the oozing stab wound that kept Thorin's tunic slick. The cloth that Henrin had given him soaked through long ago, and he threw it into the brush.

"Laddie, we must see to your shoulder. It might get infected otherwise. You have a few burns on your arms as well."

Thorin's eyes narrowed at the burns on his arms where his hair was singed, and he reached up to touch his shoulder in dismay as if he forgot he was injured. Throbbing pain roared to life, and he winced as though he just remembered it. He pulled the shoulder of his tunic down to inspect the deep and jagged wound and recalled rolling on the ground with a man determined to take his life.

"Looks like you were stabbed with a blunt dagger," Balin observed. "Too bad his blade wasn't sharper. Would have done less damage, but he probably didn't have a good smith on hand."

Thorin nodded and then slowly wiped his fingers under his eye where his spittle landed. Only the memory remained, but he still felt its sting and the contempt that burned as surely as the fire did his skin when he pulled others to safety. He stood silently for a moment leaving Balin to wonder at his thoughts, and the sinews of his neck tightened while an internal battle raged. Then his head turned with a jerk to the area where Drina lived as if looking at where she died was a punishment he deserved.

"I killed her, Balin," he said softly. "I killed her. I told her to stay in her tent, and she obeyed and died."

Balin looked around confused and then down at the bodies.

"Who?"

Thorin turned to him, and his shoulders sagged. Then he threw his shoulders back and clenched his fists, despite the pain, flexing his biceps and trembling in anger like a young tree in the wind. He had had more than enough of death and misery for one night, aye, indeed, for the rest of his life.

"A dwarfling no older than Dis," he said through his teeth. "More blood on these hands," and he shook his open palms at Balin.

"Thor…."

Thorin waved his words away before he ever spoke them.

"There are no words, Balin, no words," he spit out as he paced in front of the bodies with restless energy like a caged bear.

Balin looked down at the ground and examined all the shrouds, putting the palm of his hand against his cheek thoughtfully.

"I don't see a wee one here, lad," he said, "and these are all who died."

Thorin's head snapped up, and surprise mingled with heartbreaking hope. Without a word, he hastened toward the tents of the wounded, leaving Balin to bustle behind. Moving from tent to tent and ignoring all calls of thanks and praise from his people, he whipped open each flap and scanned those inside. Coming to the fifth tent, he heard the jingle of bells and a small child babbling. He strode inside to see Drina's brother on a blanket on the ground holding the blackened, wooden ball out to his sister who lay with both arms bandaged.

_Drina._

Despite her injuries, her eyes shined at her brother, and Thorin felt his throat grow tight. He walked toward her eagerly, his eyes shining as well and suspiciously wet. He did not know why her survival meant so much to him. Perhaps because dwarflings were rarer than mithril and the hope of his people as children of all races are, or perhaps because he no longer had her death on his conscience. In any case, seeing her lightened his spirits, but his smile dimmed when she saw him and tried to cover her face with her arms.

"Please don't punish me for not obeying, Prince Thorin," she quavered. "The ball rolled out of the tent, and my brother ran after it, and then everything started burning." She peeked at him fearfully between her thickly wrapped arms.

Crouching down, he touched her shoulder gently and breathed for a moment to regain control.

"Have no fear, little Drina," he said finally. "You did right, and I'm very happy to see you both. Very happy indeed." He looked up and around. "Where is your mother?"

Her face fell, and her fear returned. Her eyes screwed shut to block out the sounds and smells and things she saw when she grabbed the ball and her brother in her arms and started screaming.

"I don't know," she said, and her small face suddenly looking pinched as though she might cry. "She ran to help others beat out a fire, but she didn't come back."

Thorin looked up at Balin who slowly shook his head. Drina's desperate, unspoken plea for hope turned to despair, and her body shook with sobs. Thorin grimaced as he settled her gently in his good arm like a newborn babe and rocked her while she wet the only clean part of his tunic.

"You and your brother will be looked after, I swear," he said as he stood with her and motioned for Balin to bring her brother.

Soon enough, he placed them with Frerin and Dis who were delighted to have company and be needed. Dis and Drina whispered and wept together over the loss of their mothers while Frerin acted the older brother and played ball with the boy who was too young to understand that he was now an orphan. Thorin stayed with them, and when he was satisfied they were in good enough spirits, he and Balin stepped outside to see a couple talking with his father, the same couple he heard in their tent last night.

"Ah, Balin," Thrain said heartily, "where are the children, the brother and sister whose mother died?"

His advisor motioned at the tent.

"What's ado, father?" Thorin asked cautiously. The couple bowed as he approached, and they looked both stricken and eager.

"Mored and his wife, Alna, wish to care for these children since they lost their own at Erebor," Thrain said. "What is your opinion? I do not deal in such matters."

Thorin studied the dwarrow's face and then scrutinized his wife. Both unconsciously straightened under his gaze, and Alna glanced nervously at her husband.

"Do you find fault with us, my lord?" Mored asked. Thorin tilted his head, suddenly feeling very protective of Drina and her brother.

"How you know these children?" he asked carefully as he folded his arms across his chest and stared fiercely at them.

Mored took his wife's hand and spoke.

"We were neighbors of their family," he said, "and our children used to play with them." He stopped abruptly and pressed a cloth to his mouth to stifle a sob.

"Forgive me, my lords," he said, and he cleared his throat loudly. "We have means to provide for them and … love in our hearts to give still."

Thorin observed them both and asked a few more questions before he nodded his approval and motioned for them to see the children. They rushed through the opening before Mored held out his hand to hold his wife back.

"Calmly now, sweetheart," he said. "We don't want to frighten them."

Dis and Drina looked up, and the little girl held out her bandaged arms to those she knew well.

"Uncle!" she cried. "Auntie!" The couple scooped her up in their arms and huddled around the children, all crying at once.

"We will take care of you both now, Drina," Mored said with a tear dripping off his nose. "No more worries child."

Thorin loitered near the opening of the tent and watched carefully. Drina's joy was genuine, although he knew she still needed to mourn her mother. The couple then realized that Frerin and Dis were watching curiously, and they bowed hurriedly.

"Can we still play together?" Dis asked Mored. "I like Drina, and we're friends now."

Mored looked over to Thorin for his approval.

"I'm sure that father would agree, Dis," he said easily.

Mored and his wife bowed deeply at this sign of royal favor. Then Drina held out her arms to Thorin, and he smiled softly and picked her up for a hug. She snuggled on his neck and sighed happily.

"Will you promise to marry me when I grow big?" she asked wistfully. Mored and his wife drew a horrified breath together.

"Drina!"

"Child, you mustn't!"

"Prince Thorin, please forgive her!"

Thorin chanced a glance at Balin who wagged his brows suggestively, and the prince rolled his eyes at Balin and smiled genuinely for the first time since Erebor.

"I will be too old by the time you are grown," he said looking down in her eyes, "and you'll think me not handsome enough for the beauty you will be. Then he sized Frerin up. "But my brother here would do nicely in my stead." He ignored the younger prince's embarrassed scowl and grinned while Drina looked over at Frerin and shrugged dismissively.

"No," she said, "I like you best. Do you promise?"

Mored shook his head and stepped forward.

"That's enough now," he said while throwing Thorin an apologetic look, but he only smiled and set her down carefully, stifling a groan.

"I'm not ever going to take a wife, Drina," he said softly with one broad hand on her shoulder, "for our people need too much help for me to think about myself, but I'm most honored by your favor." Then he stood, bowed deeply to her, and softly kissed her hand.

"My lady," he said, "you will always have a special place in my heart."

"Promise?"

"I promise, Drina."

Mored and Alna smiled through their tears, and Drina made Thorin swear to come back and visit her before she would let him go. Dis hugged her brother, and Thorin nodded to Frerin before he and Balin walked out.

"Well, my lord," Balin said, unable to stop rubbing a sore spot, "you  _can_  be charming—despite reports to the contrary—when you set your mind to it. Are you  _certain_  you'll never take a wife?"

Thorin's smile dropped and his face hardened once he surveyed the devastation and hurried activity beyond.

"This will never end, Balin," he said gesturing in front of him, "and it will take several lifetimes to set it right. How could I give my people what they need and take care of a family as well? I'm not enough for them now only to give away what little I have to offer."

Balin looked up at the sky in exasperation.

"Perhaps your people  _need_  to see you fall in love and be happy," he said. "Something to give them hope and joy. To see that life goes on."

Thorin shook his head, and Balin huffed.

"Let Frerin bring them joy while I work to see them well-fed and safe," he said. "Between the two, they will value the latter more."

They passed by not heeding the various cries and calls of those breaking camp until he saw healers crowding around an injured dwarf.

"I told you to take care of the others!" she yelled. "By Durin's beard, don't you lot have better things to do? Don't touch me! No needles! I  _hate_  needles!"

An older dwarf eyed her sternly.

"Your injuries are more serious than you claim, lass," he said. "Those cuts are dirty. They must be cleaned and stitched."

She pushed him aside with a snort. "Leave me be!"

Balin and Thorin stopped, and the crowd parted enough for him to recognize Smelia. The whites of her eyes stood out against the dirt on her face, and she stood shaking her ax at those who tried to help. Thorin recalled the dwarves who ran out to fight and realized that he had seen her swinging her ax and dispatching attacker after attacker, but he did not recognize her until now. He rubbed his beard in surprised admiration, seeing that he had underestimated her as well. She was ferocious in defense of their people, and Thorin thought ironically that perhaps her love for dwarves had more than one outlet.

"You will go with the healers, Smelia," he said with calm authority. "We can't risk contagion in the camp."

She turned in surprise and bowed her head in defeat at his voice, remembering too well her humiliation.

"Yes, my lord," she said dully after she curtsied clumsily, and she kept her head down as she walked by him.

"You fought well," Thorin said, stopping her in her tracks, "and helped save our people. You have no cause  _at all_  to feel ashamed."

She lifted her head tentatively and looked at him under her lashes. He met her gaze evenly and with a hint of an approving smile. All at once, her embarrassment fell away, and she stood up straight and smiled gratefully.

"Thank you, my lord," she said sincerely. "Thank you  _very_  much."

Balin clucked his tongue and shook his head.

_If only…._

Then a healer noticed the prince's injuries. His blue tunic was dark on one side with blood, and he was pale with sweat beading on his forehead. Picking up Drina reopened his wound, and blood ran down his arm. The healer looked lower and saw pink patches of burned skin on his tanned arms.

"You also need treatment, my lord," he said. "It's a wonder you're still standing."

Denial was on the tip of his tongue, but Thorin caught Balin's knowing eyes.

"Aye, now," he said. "We don't want to risk contagion, do we?"

The prince huffed but with his own words before him, he nodded in agreement and set off behind Smelia only to meet Lord Henrin coming toward him with his face set in stern lines.

"Prince Thorin, I've just received word that Queen Miraine is coming here with Princess Tayla for answers about what happened," he said. His brow and chin were smeared with dried blood, and the links of his chain mail were twisted and broken in several places. "She will be here by midday. I trust that we are in agreement on events?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, I'm not sure who is reading this, but I would love to hear from you to let me know how the story is going. I'm trying to improve my writing, and I need all the help I can get.


	8. Healing Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin finds himself in unfamiliar territory after he needs emergency treatment for his wounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like a bit of fun with my characters now and again, and I hope you will agree!

Thorin felt swaddled between clouds as he stretched out in his bed. For a brief, blissful moment he thought he was at Erebor and that the past months had been just a nightmare. He blinked blearily and winced at the bright light streaming in from tall windows. Tall,  _glass_  windows. A flash of alarm raced through him, and he sat up with a curse after rapping his head against a carved, wooden headboard. Erebor had no windows to the outside.

_Where am I?_

He shifted slightly and gasped at the pain that shot down his arm. Gingerly, he reached up to his injured shoulder and felt thick, linen bandages. Then he look down at himself and realized that he was stripped to the waist. He peeked under his thin sheet. Naked as the day he was born except for several cuts and scrapes covered with gauze. He looked around desperately, but his clothes were gone.

_What happened?_

He tried to remember….

* * *

Thorin meant to go to the healers, but every time he started in that direction, something or someone needed his attention. "Where do we put those whose tents burned, Prince Thorin?" "Your Highness, we're running out of fresh water." "We need more medical supplies, my lord." He heard a faint buzzing in his ears and swatted the air. He was tired, and his shoulder ached with a pulse that turned his stomach. Making the deal with Henrin only discouraged him, but he bowed to the need of the moment, chewing the inside of his cheek as he looked into the man's determined face.

 _We all had too much to lose otherwise,_  he thought wearily, and he rubbed one bloody hand across his forehead.

Too soon, the sun beat down on him from high in the sky, and he looked up to see a procession with armed escort coming toward him. Lord Henrin rode next to Queen Miraine and was explaining what happened last night with frantic hand gestures. She looked calm, her face betraying no emotion, but the rigid set of her shoulders and grim line of her mouth told him enough. Princess Tayla was weeping and gripping the pommel of her saddle to keep herself steady, but both women stopped short on their horses and gasped at the bloodied and battered dwarf prince standing unsteadily before them. Thorin swatted the air again. The buzzing grew louder. Balin jogged up and waved his hands at Thorin's face, but the prince had trouble hearing him.

"Thorin. Thorin? Laddie!" he mouthed. "Why haven't you gone to see the healers?"

Thorin said nothing and watched the queen walk toward him. Then he slapped at his neck.

_Cursed mosquitos buzzing everywhere!_

"Lord Henrin explained what happened, Prince Thorin," she said carefully as she tried and failed to keep a sobbing hitch out of her voice. "Do you agree with his version of events? I know that dwarves value honesty."

He took in the elegant woman with her graying hair done up in a neat bun at the back of her neck. She was tastefully but plainly attired in gray, the color matching her mood. She deserved better. She deserved the truth, but the price was too high.

Thorin did not answer at first and then swatted the air as though to drive off a swarm of biting insects. He looked up to see everyone staring at him strangely.

"I  _will_ agree," he mumbled softly, and his voice sounded muffled in his ears.

She appraised him unmoving and finally nodded at his politic answer.

"I see," she said tightly. "I understand you perfectly … and I thank you for your discretion."

Her image blurred and wavered, and he grunted at the comically alarmed look on Balin's face before he pitched face first in the dirt.

* * *

Thorin rubbed his bruised cheek grimacing and looking around the room when the door opened with a bang, and a short, stout woman with the face of an owl marched in carrying steaming water in a basin and some towels flung over her shoulder. Glancing down at himself, he yanked his sheets up to his chest, and clapped a pillow on his lap. She caught his gesture and hooted merrily, her large, staring eyes crinkling and hook nose twitching.

"Puh," she said with the deep, rasping voice of a frequent pipe smoker, "too late for modesty, master dwarf, but I'm glad to see you awake at last."

Chagrined at her open amusement, he drew himself up proudly.

"Tell me where I am, women," he commanded, "then leave this room at once."

She huffed and set the basin down with a plunk on a table next to the bed.

"You're in the royal residence of Queen Miraine, master dwarf," she said shortly, "and we saved your life after you passed out in the camp. You lost too much blood, and your wounds became infected, but we cleaned them just in time. You're lucky to be alive, right lucky."

He eyed her suspiciously and lightly fingered his shoulder.

"How long have I been here?" he asked. She smiled mirthlessly.

"A week."

At that, he bolted upright, grunting when his arm buckled under his weight. A week! What had happened to his people? How were his brother and sister faring? Were they all safe? His mind whirled with questions, and he pushed hard to get up.

"Now don't be doing that," she grumbled. "We had enough trouble stitching you up to begin with for you to reopen the wound now."

She bustled over and reached for his bandages, but he shied away.

"Do not  _touch_  me!" he thundered. "Why am I not with my own healers? Why aren't they treating me? I demand to see Lord Balin at once!"

The woman stepped back with a scowl.

"You'd think you were royalty with that attitude, master dwarf," she said irritably with her hands on her hips.

"Oh, but he is," replied a light voice at the door. "Why else would he be here, Berta?"

They both turned to see Princess Tayla by the door looking like a small blackbird in her dark gown and onyx jewelry. She, herself, was dark with coal-black hair, brown eyes, and milky white skin speckled with a smattering of freckles across her nose. Slightly taller than Thorin, she was thin with a more girlish than womanly figure. She stood shyly by the door but came in and studied him with a practiced eye.

"Yes," she said approvingly, "you look better than you did that day. The color is back in your face."

Then her eyes dropped to his torso, and she flushed when she realized that he was not wearing a tunic. On their own accord, her eyes roamed over his broad and thickly muscled chest covered by curly black hair that trailed in a line down his abdomen. His muscles flexed and pulsed while he shifted his weight, and she watched fascinated as his bicep bulged when he braced his good hand on the bed. She had never seen a naked male before other than young children, and she felt an unfamiliar but exhilarating tingle in her stomach.

"Much improved, indeed, Prince Thorin," she stammered. She looked away and cast her eyes on anything and everything else.

"Prince Thorin?" Berta asked disbelievingly. "Of Erebor?"

"Aye," he answered tartly, "the very same, so if you wouldn't mind…."

"Ah, is he up at last?"

Lord Henrin rapped on the door frame and came in to stand beside the princess.

"You're looking better, Prince Thorin, I must say," he mused while stroking his beard, but the prince kept his eyes on Berta, who hovered suspiciously. "Had us worried for a few days." He looked down tenderly at Princess Tayla, but her eyes were elsewhere.

Thorin pulled the bed sheets up to his neck in exasperation and arranged pillows to cover him completely. He was not certain if the sheet was sheer, but there was no question that nakedness of any sort was improper attire. This would never have happened at Erebor where the dwarves wore several layers to compensate for the coolness of the mountain. He had seen farmers in the fields near Dale wearing only breeches, but they were working in the hot sun, so a certain amount of freedom of dress was understandable. But not here, not inside, and certainly not with company. He could not believe that they dared walk casually into his chambers while he was naked under the covers. Did these people have no shame? Berta seemed quite comfortable around him, and he groaned inwardly at what that implied. Then he glanced at the princess and noticed a becoming flush on her cheeks. She stole glances at him under her lashes, and he felt her eyes on him. Perhaps she shared his embarrassment. Or perhaps she was curious, but either way it was unendurable.

"Why am I here, Lord Henrin?" he asked as politely as he could manage while keeping a keen eye on Berta who scuttled to one side on his bed. He slammed his hand down on the sheet to keep her from pulling it back to examine him. She had recovered from her awe too quickly in his opinion. She scoffed and tugged at the corners, but he growled low in his throat.

"Leave it be, woman!"

The tall man looked sheepish for a moment while he considered his reply. Berta slipped around to the other side of the bed and leaned in, but Thorin grabbed the corner of the sheet first and tucked it around his back. She pouted and reconsidered her strategy.

"Your healers were busy treating your people, and…."

He trailed off under the dwarf's withering glare. Not for a second would the healers be too busy to treat a member of the royal family, and both knew it.

"Lord Balin suggested we bring you here to recover in peace," Henrin confessed. "He thought that if you remained at the camp you'd not rest."

Thorn pursed his lips. He could not fault his friend, but he was not staying a moment longer than he had to. He had just survived one assault and was now busy defending himself from another. Berta stole in from the side with rapid strike and snatched one of his pillows, leaving him grabbing at the air. She grinned triumphantly and waved his plump defender.

"My lord," she said firmly, "you're still weeping through the bandages, and I  _must_  check for infection. Every moment we wait may set back your progress. Now see here, there's nothing to be embarrassed about, nothing at all. In fact, my lord, you're quite well-built for a dwarf, I  _must_  say."

She stepped back and looked him over like a buyer assessing a prize bull for sale in the market square. "I was expecting a more portly gent myself when they first told me to attend you, but I knew you must be important to your people because  _I'm_ much sought after when it comes to wounds, and when I saw you I thought, I thought, Berta, now  _there's_  a handsome bloke to work on instead of all those bloated carcasses they send you. All those  _lovely_  muscles to wrap and  _strong_  bones to bind. A right work of art I've made of you, my lord, a right work of art…."

Thorin stopped listening as she prattled on and glanced up at Lord Henrin and the princess, who tried to hide the smiles on their faces. He decided then and there to set new protocols in place and have a  _very_  firm talk with Balin later when the very same walked through the door with Queen Miraine.

"Ah, Thorin! We were just coming to check on you."

The unclothed prince sagged against the pillows looking pained under two more pairs of assessing eyes and rearranged his pillows for maximum coverage after Berta tried another sneak attack on the sheets.

"Don't you dare!" he ordered while she wriggled her fingers and bobbed on the balls of her feet, clearly itching to get at him.

"Now, now, my lord," she wheedled, "I'm used to seeing all sorts, so just roll off your fanny and…."

"Berta," Queen Miraine said sternly, "that's enough. We thank you for your care of our royal guest, but leave the prince be for the moment. You'll have time later to do what you must in private."

Thorin blinked in dismay. Berta's owl eyes gleamed in anticipation, and he almost thought that she enjoyed bandaging as more of a hobby than an actual service. He gathered up his pillows and hugged his puffy bodyguards to his chest to protect what was left of his dignity while she threw a triumphant look his way. Then she curtsied with a big smile that did not falter under his glare and left waving her linen strips like a flag.

"I beg your pardon, Prince Thorin," Queen Miraine said with a grimace. "She's the best healer we have, but she's too direct. I hope she didn't offend?"

Balin's lips twisted mischievously. Only Thorin's head was visible above the mound of pillows, but realizing that he probably looked ridiculous to their eyes, he quickly sat up and let the sheet fall to his waist.

"Not at all," he said calmly. Queen Miraine cleared her throat, and her daughter's eyes dropped to the floor. Lord Henrin shifted his feet and frowned slightly at the visceral effect their guest was having on mother and daughter.

"We'll see you well, Prince Thorin," he said stiffly, "but now we must leave you in peace."

Thorin nodded regally.

"I thank you and wish for my own healers to attend me," he said. "I must get back to my people as soon as possible."

Henrin smiled easily, and the women stood off to the side and talked quietly.

"Aye," he said, "that you must. Your presence is surely missed."

Then Queen Miraine stepped forward.

"But I, as regent of this realm, welcome you and your people to spend the winter with us," she said, ignoring Henrin's sudden intake of breath. "We need to show that what happened last night was not due to animosity between our peoples. News of the, erm, attack is spreading fast, and we must present a united front. We also have need of your metal work and mining skills. We wish to increase the stock and quality of our armory and will pay fairly. What say you, Prince Thorin? Is this acceptable?"

He calmly leaned back on his pillows, looking for all the world like a prince on his throne. Henrin saw growing admiration in the women's eyes and clear pride in Balin's, and he wondered what could come of his presence here.

Thorin nodded graciously at Queen Miraine.

"I must, of course, inform my father and the king," he said, "but it is most kind of you, and barring their disapproval, I accept."

Princess Tayla touched her fingers to her lips to silence the slight squeal that escaped, and Henrin's mouth turned down. Much could happen, much could change in six months. Perhaps too much.

"I'll send Berta back in now," he said calmly, and he slipped out the door. The women followed behind.

"Well, now, laddie," Balin said thoughtfully, "at least we get six months of peace to regroup and gather supplies."

Thorin fingered his shoulder and winced from the pain.

"Bring a healer here immediately, Balin," he said nodding at the door. "That women cannot be trusted."

Balin stroked his graying beard.

"But in the meantime," he said, "I'll stay with you."

Berta popped back through the door with a wide grin.

"Now!" she said, rolling up her sleeves. "Let's get to work!"

Outside in the corridor, Lord Henrin spoke to Queen Miraine. The tall man arched his back as though to throw off a sudden weight and turned to face her.

"May I ask what prompted this sudden offer," he inquired. "You said that the dwarves would strain our resources."

The queen played with her necklace and said nothing while she scrunched her mouth. Finally she looked up at him.

"I like him, Henrin," she said softly, "I like him, and I like Balin, and we need allies. I've lost both my sons and will soon lose my husband. The dwarves are an ancient people who ruled well and wisely for thousands of years, and we need, I need, to learn from their wisdom. I never expected to rule in the king's place, and I'm frightened. To have other royals around who  _might_  understand, who  _might_  help …."

Henrin pulled on his beard with impatient tugs.

"They're  _dwarves,_  my lady," he interrupted with a fierce whisper after looking around to make sure they were alone, "and their ways are not ours. They care nothing for us. Besides, they're paupers now, not princes and kings, and they must spend their time meeting the most basic needs of their people. They won't help us. They'd best move on."

But the good lady shook her head.

"No," she said, "can't you see it? He's not a pauper; he'll never be a pauper. It's a state of mind as much as the fullness of one's purse. He will always be a prince even if he chooses to work in the mines. It's in his blood, in the way he carries himself, and in his concern for his people. They love him, Henrin. I could see that from the moment I set foot in that camp. They  _love_  him. He  _earned_  his place even more than was born to it, and I need to do the same."

Henrin opened his mouth to argue, but she placed her hand on his chest and chuckled to herself.

"He reminds me of Nelder, Henrin," she said fondly. "What a king he would have made, but, alas, for that cursed dragon. Prince Thorin reminds me of the son I lost. Grant me some joy in my dark hour. I want to have them here for a time."

His head dropped.

"Do I not make up even a little of what you've lost, my lady?" he asked, the hurt in his voice obvious.

She looked on him with clear affection.

"Of course, dear Henrin," she said stroking his cheek, "whatever would I do without you? But do not begrudge me help when it comes. Besides, Tayla likes him as well, and she has seen too much sorrow for one so young. It would be good for her to make a new friend if he's willing. Even though dwarves are much longer lived than us I believe that Prince Thorin is quite young yet, quite young indeed."

Henrin's eyes flashed fire, but the queen did not see it.

 _He's not willing, my lady,_  he thought fiercely,  _he's not. At least, he'd better not be._


	9. Slow Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin finds out the reason for his slow recovery and meets two future members of his company. Then more than undercurrents are revealed at dinner with the Queen.

"It was a sham, it was," Balin said to Thorin the next afternoon while describing Eldor's hasty memorial service and burial, "and scarcely attended. Thrain and I went to represent the House of Durin."

Thorin asked a question with his eyes.

"Oh, she knows what happened to her son, laddie," Balin said heavily, "she knows, but she also knows that Henrin did what he had to do and doesn't blame him for it. Seems like she knew what her son was, poor lady. Such a shame."

Thorin leaned back on his pillows as he listened. His broad hand smoothed his sheet, and fingers picked at the hem. He was restless and bored with his view. He looked around the room seeing all the flaws in the stonework walls and lack of artistry in the carved, wooden doors and four-poster bed he lay in. Large tapestries featured mundane scenes of hunting or lackluster landscapes. Perhaps they were good enough to keep out drafts from the cracks in the walls, but they did nothing to tempt the eye. Oh, but the tapestries of Erebor! With their peerless workmanship and fineness of detail, they tantalized and inflamed the imagination with spectacular colors and stirring scenes of dwarven glory. Well, at least his bedding was soft. Looking down, he frowned. He still soaked his bandages too much for his liking and particularly resented Berta's disturbingly pleased expression. She always bustled in without knocking to add salve and change bandages—every hour or so it seemed to the now thoroughly exasperated and strangely thirsty prince. He was always on edge, certain she ignored his demands to knock first because she hoped to catch him out of the sheets.

 _Wicked, old hag,_  he thought sourly.

Then he heard a rustling by the door and quickly grabbed his sheet and knotted it around his waist. A soft rap of three had Balin smiling widely.

"Ah, company!" he said with a wink at Thorin. "You can undo your sheet, lad. I brought reinforcements. Come!"

The door opened to admit a sharp-featured dwarf with wiry, black hair who carried a large satchel. He nodded at Balin and then eyed the prince and bowed low.

"This is Oin, my lord, your third cousin, and my first," he said by way of introduction. "Did you ever meet? Perhaps when you were a dwarfling? Don't remember? Well, a caravan just arrived, and he's a healer who specializes in wounds. He traveled from the dwarven settlement in Dunland where his brother was doing business."

Thorin brightened and honestly more because Berta had been replaced than by the sight of his third cousin, although family reinforcements were most welcome.

"I'm grateful for your timely arrival, cousin, although I wish I had made your acquaintance earlier and under better circumstances," he said smiling.

Oin grinned briefly and then frowned with his forefinger tapping his nose.

"You shouldn't still be soaking your bandages, your highness," he said, "not after what Balin told me."

He strode over to the bed and opened his satchel, pulling out a few vials.

"With your permission?" he asked, motioning at the bandage wrapping Thorin's shoulder.

He lifted an edge, sniffed, and scowled.

"Incompetent goose!" he groused. "She should have done a wet-to-dry dressing and certainly not with this ointment! It makes wounds weep."

He looked up.

"My lord, were you struck by poison-tipped weapons?"

Thorin shook his head.

"Why then," Oin scoffed, stepping back and gesturing at each of Thorin's bandages, "she's been drawing out nothing but bodily fluids you badly need. You must be parched by now."

Thorin's initial surprise was replaced with fury, which landed on Berta like a tornado when she came bursting through the door with her ever-present bundles of bandages.

"Time for your changing, your highness," she sang as though Thorin were a toddler and needed changing of another kind.

"Your  _services_  are no longer needed," he spat, barely keeping control of his temper. Then his eyes glinted with malicious satisfaction like a cat that cornered a mouse. "As you see, I have my  _own_  healer here now, so … you … are …  _dismissed_."

Her smile faded, and her large, owl eyes blinked rapidly. She looked for all the world like she had been denied the last honey bun in the bakery. Putting her fat hands on her hips, she glared at Oin, her little, squat body trembling with indignation. She knew that Thorin would heal eventually, but she would not be denied a last week with such a prize to dress and wrap.

"No," she said at last with her hook nose turning red, "I am to heal you. Queen Miraine commanded me and  _only_  me."

Thorin and Balin inhaled in unison, but Oin replied first with heavy sarcasm.

"Oh, and is that what you've done, my girl? Then why are his wounds still weeping? Could it be because you're using an ointment meant to keep wounds open even though there's no poison to extract? Tired of healing old men and young boys, are you? He should be up and dressed by now, but you've kept him here for your  _OWN AMUSEMENT!_ "

Her mouth opened and shut, making little popping sounds, as Oin's voice grew in power and anger.

Then she rallied.

"I did nothing wrong!" she hooted furiously. "I needed to make sure the infection was gone!"

Suddenly, he grabbed the fire poker from the hearth and swatted her on her ample behind. The plump healer squawked and waved her bandages in the air like wings as Oin chased her around the room. Thorin and Balin looked on with shocked surprise, which turned quickly to delighted enthusiasm.

"How dare you …" THWACK! "…treat a prince of Durin …" THWACK! "… like a lackey …" THWACK! "… at your whim!" THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

Berta ran screaming out the door but not before Oin made his point with the fire poker tip aimed square at her backside. Then he turned around with a huff to see Balin and Thorin staring at him with their eyes round as coins.

"I see you've changed not a whit, cousin," Balin finally said, "and glad we are of it."

He grunted. "You can unknot your sheet now, my lord. She won't be back," and he tossed the fire poker at the hearth.

After a brief hush, Balin burst out laughing, and Thorin joined in with a few relieved chuckles. Oin grinned.

"Glad to be of service to our noble House," he said. "Now let's see to those wounds."

* * *

 

Within two days, Thorin was up and dressed and much his old self save for some soreness in his shoulder. The dwarves never told Queen Miraine what happened, and since Berta did not either, the queen gave her the credit for his recovery. The dwarves rolled their eyes but let it stand for diplomacy's sake.

"Now that you're well again, Prince Thorin," Queen Miraine said, "I invite you and your family to join us for dinner. It will be a simple affair since we are in, in mourning for my son, but now is as good a time as any to make good on my promise and, in return, we can discuss improvements that need to be made to our roads, bridges, and armaments."

Thorin tilted his head as he considered her invitation. No doubt the dinner would be tense with so much unsaid, but he knew he could not avoid such a scenario forever. He just hoped he could keep his mouth shut about what happened on the hill.

"Thank you, my lady," he said graciously. "It will depend on my brother and sister's health, of course, and I cannot guarantee King Thror's participation, but I accept."

When he returned to the camp, he visited his brother and sister first. Oin approved of the salve, saying that the region at one time had competent healers though that time was long past. Frerin looked and sounded much better. He no longer coughed up blood, and Dis breathed much easier. Then Thorin spoke to his father, who at first sniffed at the notion of supping with those of obscure lineage and from the race of men to boot. But when he explained that they could stay for six months, Thrain yielded.

"We deserve better, my son, now don't you ever forget that," he said sternly. "We will reclaim our kingdoms and rights. In fact, some have broached the notion of reclaiming Moria. We owe it to our people."

Thorin recoiled inwardly at such a thought at such a time; even so, he felt a small spark of pride flare.

"Someday, father, we will get back all that is ours," he swore solemnly, "but in the meantime, our first concern is our people's immediate welfare. I trust that Queen Miraine"— _at least,_  he thought grimly—"will be fair in her dealings and pay accordingly."

Several weeks later, soldiers escorted the House of Durin to dinner. Prince Frerin and Princess Dis had recovered enough by then to join in. They looked forward to seeing something other than the inside of a tent and had been talking about the visit eagerly.

"Is the princess nice?" she asked as she slapped her reins again on the pony's neck. The dappled mare took two lively steps to humor her before plodding on. "Is she friendly? Do you think she would like me? Do I look well enough in my dress?" The young princess chattered happily as they rode, and Thorin exhaled slowly at her excitement over something as paltry as a decent meal and the company of men. He did not want her to like them.

 _It was different with the citizens of Dale,_  he excused.  _They were our trading partners for centuries and understood us. Now we're curiosities at best. And at worst …_

He shook off his dark thoughts and set a tight smile firmly in place as their mounts trotted up to the city walls of crumbling stone and through the main gate. They headed past the town square filled with flowering bushes and the hodgepodge of winding lanes and collection of wood and stone buildings for the gray, stone keep where he was kept virtually prisoner. It was old and past its prime, standing stolidly and offering a feeble welcome with its faded banners and wary sentries.

 _Praise Mahal for little gem,_  he thought glumly an hour later after they were all finally served. The tiny princess bubbled at everything she saw as only an over-excited child could. Without trying to, she quickly charmed Queen Miraine and Princess Tayla. Even Lord Henrin cocked an amused eyebrow. With her innocent delight, she softened her father's haughty demeanor and her brothers' cautious overtures like a fluffy blanket on hard earth.

Thorin and Frerin had dressed simply but appropriately in velvet tunics and fur-lined surcoats, both thanks to Oin's brother, Gloin, who arrived with a wagon containing bolts of cloth and pelts as gifts for the royal family and less exotic but more necessary supplies for the rest. Thorin wore blue, and Frerin wore crimson. Dis was dressed in green velvet and wore a sparkling, emerald pin in her hair, also a gift from Gloin. The ginger-haired dwarf blustered away Thorin's thanks, saying gruffly that the dignity of the family must be upheld—as long as it did not cost too much.

"Our people must never bow to men and will not as long as we dress the part," he said, urging Thorin and Frerin to wear the gold chains he held in his gnarled hands, "and looking prosperous is good for business."

Thrain wore his own freshly laundered, royal robes, which still looked quite impressive, and all the jewels he had refused to sell. He glittered in the sun, and the people stopped in the roads and lanes to watch the richly dressed dwarves ride by. Men and women in their ordinary homespun goggled and gossiped. Surely these were not the survivors of a fire-drake? Whether or not their finery was good for business, it won them no sympathy that day.

A server bowed low before Thorin with an assortment of breads.

"I heard that you enjoy seed cakes, Prince Thorin," Queen Miraine said. "I hope these meet with your approval."

Thorin smile in spite of himself. He recognized a few dishes on the table. She must have asked Balin for their preferences and even recipes of dwarven fare since he recognized roasted blood-fists and pickled tubers. That was thoughtful—and unexpected. She looked pale but determined in black silk with an onyx and jet coronet of mourning. She was indeed a woman worthy of respect, and she held court with quiet authority and unusual humility.

The heavy, oak table was long and laid with a white cloth and many silver dishes of various meats and roasted and sautéed vegetables. Thorin pressed his palm against his stomach to still the rumbling. He had not eaten much since leaving the keep. The wounded and the sick would not recover without food, and Oin wisely guessed that Thorin would pass up some of his rations, so he made sure his patient ate well before they left.

"And we have red wine as well," she added, gesturing to the burgundy liquid in the glass flagons on the table. Then her smile faltered. "My eldest brought it back … from Dale."

The table fell silent, but then Thorin stood and reached for the flagon. He poured into his lifted glass.

"In memory of our neighbors among the race of men," he said softly. "We honor our brave friends and comrades who died defending their home."

Then he took a sip as the others stood.

"Well said, Prince Thorin," Henrin remarked, also hoisting his glass, "and to our  _new_ neighbors. Even though your stay be  _short_ , we wish you all future success."

Frerin cleared his throat to cover a snort of derision, and Queen Miraine pursed her lips slightly while Tayla frowned. Dis eagerly raised her glass before Frerin poured water in it. All chuckled at her pouting face.

"Not yet, sister," he said while patting her hand. "You've still got some years to go," and he gave her a quick peck on her cheek. She sat down in a huff, unknowingly clearing the air once again. All filled their plates and talked steadily of neutral matters.

"Prince Thrain," the queen said after spearing a delicate piece of roasted kid, "I am in great need of your counsel and perhaps of King Thror's, for I am alone in ruling the land at present and have many concerns laid at my feet that I do not know how to address properly."

Thorin chanced a glance at Henrin, whose brow darkened at her words, and then at his father. Thrain lifted his chin proudly and inflated with self-importance. She had said just the thing to stroke his ego and make him feel lordly again, and it helped that she was a woman in distress.

"Why, my lady," he began pompously, "It's only right  for you to come to us for wisdom and advice for us, dwarves, have been ruling and managing kingdoms far larger and grander that yours for centuries now. I would be happy to provide you with whatever you need. Perhaps we can meet with your council as well to equip them with the wisdom of our experience, although it may be beyond many."

Thorin thought he heard Henrin's jaw crack, but he ignored it in favor of addressing the man himself.

"I regret I could not stand with my family at the burial of your prince," he said to the older man. "However events transpired, I regret the position into which Queen Miraine has been forced."

He turned to the prince with a dark look.

"She is not friendless or without competent help, whatever your father believes, Prince Thorin," he said in a low voice. He leaned backed then, assessing the dwarf's words and expressions, and his own softened. "But I appreciate your gesture and your concern for my queen. She is wiser and more resourceful than she believes and will probably rule better than her husband ever did, truth be told."

Thorin nodded. "Times try us all and reveal what we truly are."

Princess Tayla heard that last and turned to him with a smile.

"Indeed, that is so, my lord," she said. Then she leaned forward. "These times of late have tried all of us, with some found wanting and others rising in estimation," she added cryptically. Henrin frowned.

"And do you know who lands in which category, princess?" he asked with a trace of apprehension.

Before she could answer, Queen Miraine called down the table from where she was having an animated discussion with Thrain.

"My dear, Prince Thrain and I are having a most fascinating discussion, but I fear we'll bore his family with my mundane concerns. Could you play for us?" The queen clapped her hands, and servants bustled out the door.

The princess blushed prettily, and Henrin took the opportunity to praise her talents.

"She is most accomplished and has the loveliest voice," he said warmly. She spared him a slight smile and then turned to Thorin.

"I'm sure I can't compare with the skill of your people, my lord," she said with a bat of her lashes, "but if you'll excuse my poor effort?"

He dipped his head.

"I'm sure we'll all be delighted," he said gallantly in his deep, velvety voice.

The servants returned with a sparkling, gem-inlaid harp. It was exquisite, very old, and carved with designs that Thorin knew well. The servants maneuvered it carefully into place where it stood twinkling and beckoning for the right hands to coax tones and notes of wondrous beauty from its shining strings. Such a treasure seemed out of place in a dreary house of men. He breathed slowly to give him time to master his emotions. Thrain stared blankly while Frerin shot his brother a knowing look, and Dis squeaked and clapped her hand over her mouth.

Tayla stood up and walked over to the harp. She curtsied gracefully to her mother first and then to her guests. Henrin turned his chair to watch her, his lips curving up into a soft smile. Her thin fingers stroked the strings, and she ran a scale before plucking out a light and airy song. Her voice was high and pretty, and she played the harp skillfully if not remarkably for one so young. When the song was over, Henrin clapped the loudest. The princess curtsied again and smiled coyly at him.

"Now it's your turn, my lord," she said slyly, "since you play as well."

The Lord High Steward turned as red as the wine in his glass before he coughed and waved his hand.

"I'm sure our illustrious guests have no wish to hear me after your beautiful performance, my lady," he said while edging back his chair. "Perhaps another time we can play together."

"Do play, Henrin," the queen asked with a twinkle in her eye. "It's been too long since Tayla and I have heard you at the harp."

He swallowed hard and smiled painfully at the teasing women. Instinctively, he glanced at Thorin, looking for contempt and seeing a flash of pain instead. He paused long enough to recognize well-hidden suffering and, for a moment, forgot his own interests. He stood and bowed to all.

"If it would please our guests, of course," he said smoothly. Tayla was taken aback by his sudden reversal and clapped with delight.

Sitting himself down carefully, he also played a scale and then smiled at Tayla before playing a gentle song of secret longings. His adequate tenor wavered at first and then grew stronger as he held her eyes. He finished to much applause.

"That was wonderful, Henrin," the queen said warmly. "Thank you for humoring me."

Henrin had no sooner sat down when Dis piped up. "My brother plays too."

Tayla smiled brightly and turned to Frerin. "Do you indeed, Prince Frerin?" but Dis shook her head.

"Not that one."

All heads turned to Thorin. He fidgeted uncomfortably.

"It's getting late, Dis," he said, dismissing her comment with a wave of his hand, but Princess Tayla would not excuse him so easily.

"Oh, we must hear you play, Prince Thorin! Mother, persuade him."

Thorin pleaded with his eyes for Thrain to intervene, but the satisfied dwarf flicked his fingers.

"Go on, son," he said. "You do well enough."

Thorin grimaced at Henrin's slight smirk as he left his seat. None of them understood—not even his family who recognized what stood in front of them.

 _The eldest son probably bought the harp at Dale,_  Thorin thought,  _or received it as a gift from Girion's son. How can I play it now, here? How can I touch a bit of my home and walk away?_

As he stood before the harp, he stroked and caressed its inlaid gems and silken wood with the gentle hands of a lover and leaned his forehead against it. Henrin and the women watched him, at first surprised and then shocked by his behavior. Whispering a few words in Khuzdul, he placed his hands on the strings and wooed the harp tenderly. Shimmering music of tragic beauty floated across the room as Thorin danced his fingers across the strings, and the harp shivered and resounded with a voice that the others had never heard before.

Listening raptly, Tayla knew then that the harp had waited for Thorin's touch to come alive. It was almost too painful to watch, but she could not look away. She stared entranced at aching beauty of his face, haunting beyond expression in its vulnerability. No wonder he hesitated, for his artistry demanded that he expose himself completely. All at once, she knew that it pained him to play, and she felt a surge of sympathy and tenderness for him. She also knew she could never achieve such skill. As hard as she tried, as much as she studied, she would never and could never play like that. The harp itself would not allow it. With a sudden flash of insight, she realized where it came from and moaned softly. Her mother caught her eyes and nodded.

Thorin closed his eyes and hummed along with the notes, his rich baritone and the harp singing an agonizing duet of separation and loss. Their voices mingled, parted, and came back together crying out and soothing each other's pain. No one breathed as he slowly strummed the last, shattering notes, his deep voice choking at the end. He looked up to see tears running down Tayla's face, and Queen Miraine holding her napkin to her mouth to stifle her sobs. Henrin sat still, staring at him and then turning to see Princess Tayla's reaction. His family sat in silent reverie. Thorin stroked the neck of the harp once more before turning to the table and bowing in the utter stillness.

"Forgive me," he said unhappily as he saw their tears, "I did not intend to ruin this lovely evening, but I thank you for the opportunity to touch a bit of home. I never thought I'd see a harp of Erebor again."

Queen Miraine looked stricken.

"I did not know," she stuttered, "but I should have. Something so beautiful, so other-worldly, must have come from Erebor."

Henrin glanced again at Tayla, but her eyes were fixed on Thorin. She had never heard or seen such a performance in all her years. Everything in her wanted to run to the suffering dwarf and throw her arms around him. He was so courageous and heroic standing there knowing that they saw into his very soul and refusing to be ashamed. No man would ever do such a thing, and she wondered at his strength of character.

 _And so young_ , she thought.  _He isn't that much older than me. Is it what he's been through that's made him what he is or is this who he's always been?_ Then she thought on his words:  _Times try us all and reveal what we truly are._

_So this is who he is. How wonderful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any suggestions? Comments? Criticisms? Feedback is always appreciated!


	10. Slow Recovery, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves settle in while Lord Henrin worries over what will come of their presence.

**Chapter 10: Recovery, Part 2**

Lord Henrin carefully checked his appearance in the silvered glass. He was well-favored for an older man with his angular, lean face; shoulder-length, black hair with gray at the temples; and neatly trimmed mustache and beard. Baring his teeth in the mirror, he turned from side to side. He had all his teeth, which was something of a rarity among the men. Too much drink mixed with poor hygiene caused tooth rot in many of the men. But who could blame them? They could not be bothered to keep clean when so much dirty work needed doing. Reaching in, he picked out a bit of green. It would not do see the princess looking less than correct. He wondered why he made such an effort now when he never thought to before. Then he thought of the dwarves.

Two months had passed since the Durins dined at the keep, and since then they and their people somehow insinuated themselves into every aspect of town life. People were at first skeptical of the dwarves living so close by, and many stories were told of their strange ways. Did they really spring from holes in the ground? Were they part rock with their stocky bodies and gnarled faces? Did they really live to 300 seasons old? What was that strange language they spoke? The people gossiped and wondered, and talked of little else. But after the dwarves fixed their rutted roads and started building a stone aqueduct to bring fresh water into the region, the people embraced them wholeheartedly. Suddenly, all things dwarvish became the fashion.

Women copied the elaborate braids of the dwarrowdams, sometimes to comic effect. One eager, young woman strutted down the street proudly with braids sprouting out of her head like antennae. Henrin smirked at the memory. Men let their beards grow, and the more daring added metal cuffs. Clothing styles changed as well. Even though the dwarves were homeless and lacked nearly everything, what remained of their former lives was of the finest quality and of impeccable workmanship. Women marveled at the rich fabrics and intricate, gold -thread embroidery around tattered hems of skirts and blouses. The men coveted the elegantly tooled, leather saddles, satchels, boots, belts, and jerkins. Dark, dwarven ale brought by caravans was much sought after, and people tried all manner of dwarvish cuisine. Henrin shuddered at the more exotic dishes of moss fritters and the hunks of undercooked and heavily spiced meat that the dwarves downed in mighty gulps.

The men and woman also marveled at the mighty strength and stamina of the dwarves, who cut stone like butter and worked tirelessly until late in the evening. Queen Miraine revealed to them the secret of the realm's success: two mines with one yielding high-grade, iron ore and the other a fair amount of gold and semi-precious stones. Balin and other high-ranking dwarves inspected the mines and made many suggestions to increase their productivity. Gloin offered his business expertise to expand their markets. A ripple of excitement and energy swept through the region when the people realized that dwarves were  _very_  good for business.

However, Henrin did not like all the changes. Mighty strength was fed by mighty appetites, and his last two hunting parties returned with half the game he usually caught. Jokes by the men about his aim being off were met with stony silence. And that was not all. He saw old-growth forest trees crashing one after another to the ground to make log houses for the dwarves for the winter.

 _They swarm like ants,_  he thought as he rubbed his mustache and beard with a wet cloth,  _devouring everything they see._

Lord Jace Henrin was a more worthy man than many in the realm, although it had its share of decent folk who simply wanted to get by. Born as a minor member of the gentry, he advanced in rank through faithful service and hard work. He was loyal to his people and the royal house in particular for he saw that the king and queen sincerely cared about justice, honesty, and prosperity for all their citizens. How Eldor escaped their notice for as long as he did baffled him, but he knew that they had many trials to safeguard their lands from rapacious neighbors, and Eldor was clever. As clever at Princess Tayla was kind.

His heart swelled at thoughts of her with her gentle grace and sweet compassion for those in need. A more worthy man, perhaps, but a man nonetheless who coveted her dark beauty and was fiercely jealous of any who might turn her head.

_She will make a splendid queen._

A man not without ambition.

_And I a king who will ensure our dominance in these lands._

He huffed and checked his appearance again.  _But what to do about the dwarves?_ Putting his fist to his chest, he breathed in and out, trying to calm himself with the thought that this was temporary. Soon enough the dwarves would be gone, and all would return to normal.

_But in the meantime…._

Queen Miraine sought the dwarves' advice on all manner of question, and he felt swept aside like refuse broomed into a corner. Of course, the dwarves did have exceptional mining and stone- and metal-work skills. She was right to seek their help and advice there, but there it should have stopped. Instead, he saw dwarves supplanting men in the important positions of their realm everywhere he turned. They somehow took charge of all engineering projects and reworked already drawn-up plans for new bridges and buildings. Prince Thrain and Queen Miraine often walked through the muddy town streets together, the queen hanging on every word. She even sought and was granted an audience with the reclusive King Thror and left that meeting starry-eyed and determined to change many long-standing laws. The king must have had a lucid moment, but it was all too much for the Lord High Steward.

And then there was Prince Thorin and his brother. Finer of feature and taller than most other dwarves, the young princes swaggered their way into the hearts of women who made fools of themselves—in Henrin's opinion—to attract their attention. Blond and green-eyed, Frerin was a flirt and enjoyed the adulation. He gained quite a reputation for gallantry, kissing hands and bestowing flowery compliments. His cheerful disposition and open, friendly manner won him many friends among the men as well. Henrin often heard his hearty laughter ringing out when he was in town, and his jokes and amusing stories were repeated time and again in the pubs until Henrin knew them by heart—not that he wanted to. He snorted. It was a bad jest indeed to see the grinning prince saunter down the center of the main street with women hanging off both arms and more trailing behind. Still, everyone knew he was young and played it all as a merry lad enjoying the company.

He ground his teeth. Prince Thorin was another matter. Dark, brooding, and of few words, the elder prince's smiles were rarer than rubies. More like a flash of lightning in the night sky, and any woman who received one was instantly the most envied in town. He shook his head in confusion. Why would any woman seek after one so grim and unsociable? But it was very clear that they did. They  _enjoyed_ Prince Frerin, but they  _wanted_ Prince Thorin. For some mysterious reason, he sped their hearts, and Henrin could not understand why. After all, who could want a dwarf? Of course, even he could not deny that Prince Thorin was somewhat handsome with his strong features and noble countenance, but that did not change the fact that he was a dwarf. A dwarf! He had seen a few human dwarves in his life, and they were objects of pity or tolerance at best. But here come a veritable army of dwarves, and the women lose their wits. It made no sense.

He pursed his lips and recalled some conversation he had heard at the bakery. He had listened as women discussed Prince Thorin's broad shoulders and sad eyes. They sighed and fluttered their handkerchiefs. Then they discussed his deep, sonorous voice and sighed some more.

 _Ah, perhaps they feel sorry for him,_ he thought. That made more sense to him. His late sister, rest her soul, brought in all manner of stray bird and beast when she was young. Perhaps they pitied Prince Thorin, pitied him like a lost puppy. Women were soft that way. And despite Queen Miraine's wish that Prince Thorin befriend Princess Tayla, nothing had come of it. The dwarf kept to himself and his inner circle, only coming to town when need be. Perhaps the queen felt sorry for him as well. He breathed easier.

 _Aye, that must be it,_  he reasoned.  _They feel sorry for him. Aye, that makes sense, and they should._ He felt more generous toward the dwarf prince.  _He lost everything, poor lad. He watched his king go mad and his mother die before his eyes, poor fellow._ Then he remembered the rest of the conversation.

"And so handsome," a barmaid had said to her giggling friend. "I'll wager any woman would be happy in his arms. Do you think he wears a tunic when he hammers away in the forge? I'd give my coin purse to find out."

His compassion evaporated.

 _No matter._   _They'll be gone soon._

He straightened and left to find Tayla. It was still too soon to press his suit, but he was determined to spend time with her and let her get used to him as part of her life. Hurrying down the corridor, he came on Queen Miraine giving orders to the chambermaids.

"Yes, these two suites to be emptied and scrubbed thoroughly," she said while eyeing armfuls of sheets and coverlets. "No, I want these replaced. They're practically threadbare, and I want velvet wall hangings in royal blue. Send them to the dwarves to be embroidered if our seamstresses are unequal to the task."

Henrin felt an uncomfortable niggling in his stomach.

"What ado?" he asked as he looked in what was her sons' room to see some servants on their hands and knees with buckets of soapy water and bristle brushes and others removing all the old furnishings. The rooms smelled fresh and clean as servants scrubbed the plank floors and removed musty mattresses.

"I'm ordering these rooms cleaned and remade for the Durins," she said while waving away selections of fabrics. "No,  _velvet_  coverlets. They require heavier bed linens."

The niggling turned into a burning pain.

"They're to live  _here?_ " he asked disbelievingly. "Surely they want to stay with their people."

She smiled and nodded approvingly at two bolts of fabric.

 _No doubt of dwarven origin,_ he grumped.

"That is what Prince Thorin said," she answered without looking at him. She glanced at the walls and turned to her secretary, who was taking copious notes on all she found wanting. "These tapestries are old and ugly. See if a few dwarven weavers are available. Give them anything they need." She spared a glance at Henrin before turning away again.

"He graciously refused on their behalf," she said as she bustled about approving and disapproving of various offerings, "but we should have these rooms readied just in case. I asked Prince Thorin to oversee all work coming out of the royal forge, so he might need to stay from time to time as well as his family members."

Henrin frowned, and thick brows puckered over his eyes. There was plenty he wanted to say, but he knew he needed to tread carefully. He did not want his concerns dismissed as jealousy—it was  _not_  that, most assuredly—but he did think that this inordinate interest in the dwarves needed to end, and sooner rather than later.

"Is it wise to have the dwarves so integrated into our lives?" he asked with as neutral a tone as he could conjure. "We'll need to manage on our own after they leave, and I don't want our neighbors thinking us weak for so obviously depending on them."

Queen Miraine finally looked at him, and she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.

"Indeed, Henrin," she said crisply, "I see quite the opposite. Our friendship with the dwarves has increased our stature among our neighbors, for it is well-known that the dwarves do not ally themselves with those they deem unworthy of their skills. Besides, their work on our bridges, roads, and walls will stand for 1,000 seasons. Who else can say the same? Did you see their plans for the city gate? Magnificent!"

Henrin gave them their due with a quick dip of his head.

"Aye, no doubt, but they have worked in all the towns along the way for they are destitute and must work where they can. Their service here cannot count for so much."

She waved away his concerns impatiently.

"We have need of their skills and knowledge," she said. "My lord, the king, though still with us, will not live out the winter, and we must make use of all possible resources. Our  _neighbor_ "—and she jerked her head to the north—"would like nothing better than to make our prosperity his own. I would see our towns rebuilt to last and our keep become the fortress we need, and we cannot achieve that without their help."

He exhaled and cast around for something that would win her to his point of view, when his gaze fell on Princess Tayla walking down the hall. She looked quietly lovely in a royal blue gown. She never favored jewel tones before, but he dismissed any significance of her choosing this  _particular_  color.

"Good morning, princess," he said gallantly with a bow. She smiled softly and peeked into the rooms.

"Do you think he will stay here much, mother?" she asked. Her voice was demure, but her eyes gleamed with excitement.

"I think not," her mother answered as she waved away her secretary.

Henrin considered all possible reasons for her question. He did not like any of them.

"Why do you ask, my lady?"

Now her eagerness was palpable. She clasped her hands in front of her and bit her lip.

"I  _hoped_ ," she began. Then she exhaled with nervous excitement. "I was  _hoping_  that Prince Thorin—if he isn't too busy—might give me a few lessons on the harp."

The queen smiled warmly, but Henrin pulled a face.

"I'm sure that overseeing the armaments will occupy all his time."

* * *

With a matronly air, she beckoned her brother closer with a crook of her finger and daintily laid out a lacey doily given by a local woman and four mugs.

"Dis," Thorin grumbled as he surveyed the dwarven equivalent of playing tea party, "you are too old for this, and I  _know_  I am."

He had wanted to spend some time with his family before he started working at the royal forge, so he and Frerin sparred in a makeshift training ring every morning, and then he spent time with his sister. Drina always made sure she was there.

"Please sit next to me, Prince Thorin," she said primly as she patted the seat next to her. She still kept up the illusion that he would be hers someday, and he could not find it in his heart to say otherwise.

He smiled and sat down. He kissed her hand gently and grinned at his sister who giggled.

"Now how was your day, dear?" Drina asked while pouring tea into the mug. Thorin was so surprised that he could not find any words to answer her and blinked helplessly. A snigger at the door announced Frerin's arrival.

"Wedded bliss, brother?" he chortled, ignoring Thorin's dark look.

Dis pursed her lips, but her friend stood, marched over to him, and poked her finger against his chest.

"Don't you be mean to my prince," Drina said with an impressive scowl on her face. "I'll be nice to you because you're his brother, but you are  _not_  invited to our party."

Frerin's eyes twinkled, but he held up his hands in mock surrender.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said with no small amount of charm, "I am a cad indeed to insult my brother's  _beloved_."

Drina crossed her arms and tapped one foot while deciding his fate.

"Very well," she said finally, "you may join us, but you'll be washing the  _dishes_  if you say anything nasty."

Frerin followed and mugged at Thorin behind her back. He rolled his eyes.

"Don't encourage her," he said out of the side of his mouth after Frerin sat down. "It's bad enough that she calls herself Lady Durin."

"You're the one who won't say anything, brother," he replied, "so it's on your own head. But what would father think if he heard? Or Balin? Perhaps he doesn't need to worry now that you're spoken for."

Thorin elbowed his brother, earning himself a sharp look from his much younger sister.

"Will you two ever grow up?" she asked. "Honestly, you both are the worst."

Drina laid out a plate of biscuits, honey buns, and berry scones. Perhaps this was not so childish after all. Thorin and Frerin loaded their plates when they heard a knock at the door.

Princess Tayla stood there with several guards behind her. Surprised, the princes got to their feet.

"Welcome, my lady," Thorin said smoothly. He rubbed his knuckle across the corner of his mouth to remove sticky crumbs. "Please come in."

She looked startled at his open smile and then glanced over at the table to the others.

"Ah, a tea party!" she said nervously while trying to match his easy manner. "I haven't seen one for ages."

Dis ran over and hugged her. "You can join us if you want. We have plenty for a change."

Tayla gave her a squeeze.

"I'd be delighted," she said softly. Dis pulled her over to sit on Thorin's other side, but Drina put her hand out.

"That side is my side too," she said. "He's my prince, so I get all his sides."

Tayla's eyes grew round, and she put one hand over her mouth. She could hardly think that Thorin was betrothed to such a young child, but then again, she knew nothing about dwarves. Frerin came to her rescue.

"Drina here took a shine to my brother after he gave her back her ball one night," he said, "and she's quite, um, determined."

Tayla wanted to laugh, but she saw the child's lip poke out and said nothing. Dis seated her opposite Thorin and, for some reason, she could not look him in the eye. So she sat quietly and talked with Dis and Drina.

"I congratulate you, my lady, on your choice," she said softly. "I'm sure Prince Thorin will make a splendid husband."

She heard his stifled groan and worried suddenly that she had overstepped her bounds.

"So what brings you here, my lady?" he asked gruffly.

Now it was her turn to look uncomfortable. She hemmed and hawed while the others watched. Somehow, she could not face him and kept her eyes on her lap. Everything about him intimidated her even though he sat with two girls at a tea party. Despite her anxiety, she could not help but think him a thoughtful brother to join his sister's game. She reminded herself that he was at least 10 years younger than Lord Henrin and prepared herself.

"I wanted to see how you all were faring in the camp and if you needed anything," she finally said in a rush.

Frerin's eyebrow raised, and he looked over at Thorin, who clearly was thick as a plank in some areas. The younger prince had a keen appreciation for females—of any race—although he agreed with his family that elves were horrible creatures even though he had once admired their silky hair.

"We are quite well, my lady," he replied easily. He paused. "Is there no  _other_  reason you came by?"

He ignored his brother's snort and waited patiently. He was rewarded finally with a shy smile.

"I had hoped, Prince Thorin," she started turning to him. She cleared her throat and aimed her gaze at his throat. "I wanted to ask if you might see your way to sharing with me how you play the harp so beautifully."

His brows went up, but before he could answer, a loud knock sounded. Tayla shrunk in her seat while Frerin went to the door.

"Ah, Lord Henrin."

The Lord High Steward stared at the comfortable, no, domestic scene in front of him, and he bit his lip in disapproval.

"I had heard you left for the camp, my lady," he said a bit more harshly than he meant, "and I came to ensure your welfare."

If he had intended to show chivalry, he missed the mark by a wide margin. Her lip stuck out almost as far as Drina's.

"Did you think me in any danger among our friends and allies, my lord?" she asked with her head held high. Her dark eyes narrowed. "I was not aware that the camp was off-limits to me or that my actions were monitored."

Henrin panicked and knew that he blundered but did not know how to recover. Surprisingly, Thorin rescued him.

"My lady," he said gently as he held her startled gaze, "he is only doing his duty and does not deserve your anger. I would be equally uneasy in his situation."

Then he addressed Henrin.

"However, she will come to no harm here, my lord."

Henrin did not see Tayla's face as she kept her eyes on Thorin, but he could not fault his words.

"I thank you, Prince Thorin," he replied stiffly. Then he looked around. They all looked too cosy with each other, and he did not like it. "May I ask what goes on here?"

Thorin opened his mouth to answer, but Drina beat him to it.

"We're serving tea," she said stoutly. Then she whispered loudly. "Should we let him in? There won't be enough to eat if he sits with us. They took almost everything!"

Frerin coughed behind his hand, and Thorin quickly pushed some of their biscuits and berry scones back on the platter.

"No need, miss," Henrin said.

Drina shook her head. " _Lady_  Durin."

The steward's eyes opened wide. "Lady Durin?"

Drina leaned against Thorin's shoulder adoringly.

"It's a long story," Frerin said with a roll of his eyes.

Henrin smiled widely. It would be his last for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like the story, please drop me a line. Comments and suggestions are welcome.


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